


The Modernization of Steve Trevor

by JCBeckett



Series: Resurrection [2]
Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types, Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Movie Spoilers, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-02-06 04:59:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 110,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12810141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCBeckett/pseuds/JCBeckett
Summary: Captain Steve Trevor used to think that being a spy in the middle of the Great War was complicated.Then he traveled one hundred years into the future, got a job with a clandestine government agency run by a psychopath, and moved in with his immortal goddess Amazonian warrior princess girlfriend.He has since re-evaluated his definition of the word complicated.[A sequel to Resurrection, consisting of one-shots that explore Diana and Steve's two years together before the events of the epilogue.]





	1. Dancing

****The first time Steve Trevor dances with Diana Prince, it’s on the streets of a tiny Belgian town in the middle of a war. The last few years of his life have been filled with carnage and loss and decisions he’s not proud of. But when he pulls her close, her hand warm in his, her smile wide and breathtakingly beautiful as she gazes up at the snow, he thinks that at some point in all the mess he must have done something right.

Later, when she kisses him in her room at the inn, he realizes he was wrong. There is nothing he could have possibly done to deserve someone like her.  

* * *

“Bourbon, neat,” Steve tells the bartender.

He leans against the bar and glances out across the room that’s filled with sparkling ball gowns, tailored tuxedos, and a whole lot of art. It doesn’t take long to find Diana. She’s talking animatedly with an older couple, the champagne flute in her hand glinting as she gestures toward a tall statue. He hasn’t seen her take a sip of it yet. He suspects that she only carries it around so that no one will hand her a drink she doesn’t want. He’s done the same thing while on a mission.

It’s a bit surreal to be here with her. He’s been living in the twenty-first century for two months now, and it isn’t the first time he’s been to the Louvre while she’s working. He’s visited a few times during the workday to take her to lunch, and she gave him a tour once after hours. But tonight is the first time he’s been to a fundraising gala with her. He’s her date, technically, but she’s also working—which means she must charm very, very wealthy people like the elderly couple she’s currently talking to, and though she seems not to mind when he’s by her side as she makes her rounds, she also doesn’t seem to mind when he stands back and lets her go it alone.

Of the two options, he figured out within the first fifteen minutes that he prefers to stand back rather than tag along. It’s not a matter of interest; he likes to hear her talk about her work. It’s not a matter of confidence either; he knows he’s charming, and he knows that between the two of them, they could probably convince every person in the room to sign over half their fortune to the museum. The real reason is simple—it’s the perfect opportunity for him to admire her without her teasing him for doing so.

He knows he’s not the only one. He’s a spy, and he knows how to read a room. He’s lost count of how many people he’s caught watching her in awe. It doesn’t bother him. They can look all they want. He’s the one who gets to take her home.

“Did you see Mademoiselle Prince?” a voice says somewhere to Steve’s left. He swings his head around and spots a man in a black tux talking to another man and a woman.

“Everyone’s seen Mademoiselle Prince,” the woman scoffs. “That dress is stunning.”

“I don’t think it’s the dress everyone’s looking at,” the man chuckles.

“Which one is she?” the second man asks.

“The one in the blue. With the dark hair.”

Steve glances at Diana. Her dress is a dark sapphire, with a plunging neckline in the front. Her hair is gathered into a knot on the back of her head, and there are a pair of long, sparkling diamond earrings hanging from her ears. When she turns to gesture at another statue, her earrings swinging with the movement, Steve’s treated to a view of the nonexistent back of her dress.

One of the men sucks in a breath. “God, she’s…” he starts. He does not finish.

“The most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?” the other man supplies.

“Yeah,” the first man sighs.

Steve smirks. The bartender sets a glass of bourbon in front of him, and Steve nods his thanks and takes a sip as he continues to eavesdrop.

The woman laughs. “I forgot you’re new, Louis. You’ve never seen Mademoiselle Prince before?”

“I’d remember if I had,” Louis says reverently. “What’s her deal?”

“I don’t think she’s into interns, if that’s what you’re asking,” the woman answers.

“I heard Prince Harry asked her out when he came here with his brother and Kate for a tour,” the first man says.

“She dated Prince Harry?” Louis asks, his eyes wide.

“No,” the man answers, grinning. “She turned him down.”

“Shit,” Louis mutters.

“How do you know that?” the woman asks suspiciously.

“I dated one of her interns for a few weeks,” the man answers. “I heard she turned down Jean-Paul Croix too.”

“The millionaire?” Louis chokes.

“Billionaire,” the other man corrects smugly.

“Looks like she’s about to be asked out by another one,” the woman notes.

Steve glances over at Diana and sees that Bruce has appeared at her side. The Batman smiles thinly at the elderly couple, and after a moment they wander away. Diana turns toward Bruce, and his lips smooth into a sincere smile. Two months ago, Steve would’ve watched the interaction with jealousy. Now, he feels no such thing.

“That’s Bruce Wayne,” the first man says. “Looks like they know each other already.”

“He’s _so_ hot,” the woman says wistfully. “If she wasn’t so damn nice I’d hate her.”

Bruce holds out his hand. Diana smiles, puts her hand in his, and lets him lead her to the dance floor.

“Looks like he’s having better luck than Croix,” Louis says enviously.

“Nah,” the first man says. “I hear she’s got a boyfriend.”

The woman and Louis round on the first man with wide eyes, and Steve smirks into his bourbon.

“How do you know that?” the woman demands.

“Dated another one of her interns,” the man says with a shrug. “Apparently the boyfriend stops by to take her out to lunch sometimes. Sent her a massive bouquet of flowers once too.”

“Have you seen him? Is he hot?”

“Nope, never seen him. But I assume if Mademoiselle Prince is dating him then he must be good looking.”

“Or rich,” Louis sighs.

“Or good in bed,” the woman adds.

“Probably all three,” the man laughs.

Steve suddenly has an unbearable urge to dance with Diana. He downs the rest of his bourbon and heads for the dance floor. Bruce spots him over Diana’s shoulder when he’s still a few yards away. The Batman lowers his arms and steps back from Diana.

“Good to see you, Steve,” Bruce says, another sincere smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Likewise,” Steve says.

Diana turns, and the moment her eyes fall on him they light up. His heart thumps in his chest. “Steve,” she greets softly.

“May I cut in?” he asks, smiling.

“Perfect timing,” Bruce says. “I was planning to head out anyway.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to Diana’s cheek. “See you two next week.”

“Good night, Bruce,” Diana says, brushing a hand over his chest.  
Bruce reaches out to shake Steve’s hand, and then he disappears into the crowd. Diana steps closer to Steve, and he runs his hand lightly across the bare skin of her back before wrapping his arm around her waist.

“Where have you been?” she murmurs in his ear, her hand brushing over the nape of his neck as they start to sway.

“Over at the bar,” he answers. “Eavesdropping.”

She laughs. “Hear anything good?”

“A couple of your colleagues talking about you.”

“Oh?” she says. Most people would want to know what was said, and whether it was complimentary. Steve knows Diana doesn’t care. He tells her anyway.

“Lots of talk about you being the most beautiful woman they’ve ever seen.”

“Well that’s kind of them,” she says.

“They also said Prince Harry asked you out once.”

“Did they now,” she laughs.

He waits, but she says nothing else. “Well, did he?” Steve asks.

Diana leans back to look him in the eye. She smirks at him, and he immediately knows the answer is yes.

“He may have mentioned something about having dinner together sometime,” she says vaguely.

“And you said no?”

She lifts a shoulder. “Dating British royalty isn’t really conducive with keeping a low profile.”

He laughs. She smiles, apparently pleased by his amusement. He leans closer to her. “They’re right, you know.”

“About?”

“How beautiful you are. There’s not a single person in this room who can keep their eyes off you.”

“Maybe,” she concedes, a soft smile tugging the corners of her mouth upward. “But I’m only looking at you.”

His heart thumps in his chest again. He glances down at her mouth because he’d really like to kiss her. He’s better about PDA than he was when he first got to this century, but he still occasionally gets embarrassed. He’s not sure what the protocol is for work events.

“Might as well give them all something new to talk about,” she murmurs as if she has read his mind.

He doesn’t have to be told twice.

“I think I just heard all their hearts shatter in unison,” he whispers afterward.

She laughs.

* * *

Steve is hanging up a few of Diana’s blouses in the closet when he finds it. He pulls it out, looks it over, and immediately imagines taking it off of her.

“Why have I never seen this?” he asks, stepping out into the living room with the hanger still in his hand.

On the far side of the apartment, Diana looks up from the stove. Her eyes travel over the dress that’s hanging from the hanger, and then shift to his face. The corner of her mouth lifts upward into a smirk.

“It’s a summer dress,” she answers with a shrug.

“It’s June now. That’s summer.”

She smiles. “Yes.”

He glances at the dress, and then back at her. “So you could wear it.”

“I could.”

She lowers her gaze back down to the stove. He watches her flip the burners off, and then turn away from him to pull two plates from the cupboard. When she turns back around with the plates in hand, he is still staring at her. She rolls her eyes a little.

“Are you going to stand there all night with that dress in your hand and that look on your face?”

“What look?”

“You know exactly what look.”

He grins. “You like my looks.”

She sighs, but there is no annoyance in it. Only affectionate exasperation. “What do you want, Steve? You want me to put it on right now while we eat dinner?”

“Oh you’re going to eat dinner in it, that’s for sure,” he says. “Friday night. Me and you. Nicest place in town. I’ll make reservations and everything.”

“Fine,” she says, laughing. “Now can you please go hang that back up so we can eat dinner?”

Friday night comes, and Diana looks even better in the dress than Steve imagined she would. They eat dinner at a restaurant with white tablecloths and candles and a wine list. They don’t typically eat at places like this—they prefer neighborhood cafes and unassuming bistros and the various take-out places that surround their apartment. But he’s been meaning to take her out somewhere nice, and if she’s going to wear a dress like that, then they should definitely be eating at a place like this.

It’s a gorgeous night. When they leave the restaurant he takes her hand and asks if she wants to go for a walk before they head home. She smiles and murmurs her assent. They’re in a part of the city that he hasn’t been to yet, and he’s fascinated by how busy it is. The restaurants and bars seem to be overflowing, and crowds of young people are wandering the sidewalks.

When they come across a long line of people standing outside a building with thunderously loud music, Steve frowns. There aren’t too many modern things he doesn’t know any more, but he has no idea what this is.

“What’s that?” he asks Diana, nodding in the direction of the building.

“It’s a club,” she answers.

“A club?” he repeats. She nods. “What do people do there?”

She shrugs. “Dance and drink, mostly.”

He looks over at her. “What kind of dancing?”

She smiles. “Not the kind you’re used to.”

_Must be modern,_ he thinks. Barry mentioned twerking once, and when Steve asked him what that was, Barry had shown him a YouTube video. Steve wonders if that’s what Diana means. He figures he might as well ask.

“Like twerking?”

Diana whips her head around so fast that he thinks she’d have whiplash if she were human. “What did you just say?” she asks.

“Twerking,” he repeats. “Did I say it wrong?

“No,” she says. She is grinning at him. “How do you know about that?”

“Barry showed me a YouTube video.”

“Of course he did,” she says, laughing.

Steve glances back toward the club. The line of people waiting to get in has gotten even longer. The music is very, very loud. He wonders what kind of dancing requires such a heavy bass beat.

Diana leans her body into his. “Would you like to go in?”

“Oh no, that’s okay,” he tells her. But he kind of does.

Diana, naturally, sees right through his lie. “Come on,” she murmurs, tugging on his hand.

He follows her across the street and toward the building. He heads for the back of the line but Diana pulls him in the opposite direction, straight for the door and the burly man who seems to be guarding it.

“Uh, Diana?” Steve says. “Isn’t this the line to get in?”

“Yes.”

Quite a few people in line have caught sight of Diana and her dress. Most of them are admiring her, but a few of them—particularly the two women at the very front of the line, which Diana is currently breezing right past—seem rather annoyed.

“Don’t we have to stand in line?” Steve hisses at Diana.

“No,” she says simply. And then she stops in front of the angry-looking guard and smiles. It’s one of her stunner smiles—the kind that makes Steve want to recite sonnets while he worships every inch of her body. The security guard seems to feel the same way. The grumpy look dissolves right off his face, and after a brief conversation and a charming-as-hell laugh from Diana, he steps aside and gestures for them to go in.

“That was impressive,” Steve tells her after they step through the door and into a dimly lit vestibule.

“Thank you,” she murmurs with a smile. They’re greeted by a blond woman in a sparkly dress. She’s flanked by two very tall, very stern looking men. Steve follows Diana’s lead and holds out his ID. The blond rattles off an entry fee, and Steve pulls out his wallet and hands her some bills. She stamps his hand, and he stares down at the ink on his skin and wonders why he needs it.

“Come on,” Diana murmurs, weaving her fingers through his. She leads him toward another set of doors. She squeezes his hand and glances at him just before she pushes one open. “Stay close,” she says. “It’ll be crowded.”

And then suddenly they’re in the middle of a sea of people. It’s dark, and there are lights flashing so rapidly and brightly that Steve wonders if anyone has ever had a seizure while here. The music is practically deafening, and he’s pretty sure his ears are going to be ringing for days after this.

Diana is holding his hand tightly and she seems to know where she’s going, so he just follows her blindly through the crowd. She finally stops at a bar. Steve comes up next to her, hovering close, and glances down the length of the bar. There are three bartenders behind the counter, and dozens of people waving to get their attention. It’s going to take forever to get a drink.

Unless you’re Diana, apparently.

Steve watches as his girlfriend leans against the bar and looks expectantly at a bartender. The man’s eyes settle on her, widen a little, and then he immediately heads in her direction. He leans toward her over the bar, and Diana leans across it too and says something in his ear. The bartender pours two drinks and sets them on the bar. Diana pays him but doesn’t wait for change—she takes the two cups in her hands, turns toward Steve, and holds one out with a smile. As Steve takes it from her, he catches a glimpse of the bartender’s envious glance at him. He tries not to grin.  

Diana leads him to a staircase next. It’s so dark and there are so many people that he has to concentrate on making sure he doesn’t miss a step and fall flat on his face. When they get to the top, Steve squeezes Diana’s hand. She turns her head toward him.

“How do people even hear each other in here?” he says in her ear. He feels like he’s shouting.

She smiles at him over her shoulder but does not answer. She leads him forward a few more yards, and then there is finally an opening in the crowd. Diana stops at a railing that’s about waist height, and Steve stops next to her. His eyes get caught on the curve of her hips in the dress, and he doesn’t pretend he’s not looking. He reaches out and smoothes his free hand over her waist. She leans toward him.

“People don’t come here to talk,” she says. He lifts his gaze to her eyes. She smiles and points out over the railing. “They come here to dance.”

He follows the direction of her finger and sees a massive crowd of people down on the floor below. He gapes at them. Diana said they were dancing, but it’s not like any kind of dancing Steve has ever seen. His eyes settle on one couple in particular, a broad shouldered man and a petite brunette woman. The man is standing behind the woman, his body pressed tightly against hers, and they are grinding against each other.

Steve glances at a different part of the floor and sees another couple doing the same thing, except they’re facing each other. He watches as the man’s hands dart down to grab the woman’s ass and then suddenly they’re kissing, and Steve is pretty sure the woman’s tongue is about halfway down the man’s throat, and good _lord_ they’re in _public._

He glances away in embarrassment, but everywhere he looks couples are bumping and rubbing against each other in time with the ear-splitting bass beat. Steve can feel his face burning.

Diana presses her body against his. “You look very scandalized,” she says in his ear. He can hear the amusement in her voice. Her fingers caress the back of his neck.

He wants to look at her, but he can’t take his eyes off the dancers. “What are they _doing?_ ” he says in a strangled voice, watching a woman’s hips snap back hard and fast against a man’s crotch.

“They’re dancing.”

“That is not dancing, Diana, that is sex with clothes on.”

She laughs, throaty and rich in his ear, and it suddenly occurs to him that this might not be her first time here. He turns to her.

“Have you been here before?”

There is a spark of mischief in her eyes. “Yes,” she answers.

“With who?”

She lifts a shoulder. “A man who thought I might like it.”

Steve glances at the dance floor and tries not to imagine Diana dancing like that with some other guy. “Did you?”

“This place is a little loud for my taste,” she says. “But he was nice, and I do like to dance.”

“You like to dance like _that?”_ he sputters.

She smiles but does not answer his question. She fiddles with the top button of his shirt, her eyes sparkling with a dare. “Would you like to dance with me?”

“I can’t dance like that.”

“Of course you can. It’s just sex with clothes on, and we both know you’re very good at sex.”

Desire tightens in his groin. “Good lord, Diana,” he mutters, glancing down at the floor.

“Drink your bourbon, Steve,” she commands, caressing the back of his hand that’s holding his drink.

He swallows the drink obediently. She downs hers too, and then leans forward and puts her mouth by his ear.

“Now take me down there to dance.”

He closes his eyes and tries not to shiver at the feel of her breath on his skin. He’s certain he’ll look like an idiot if he takes her down to the dance floor. But when she uses _that_ voice while wearing _that_ dress, he has no choice but to do as she says.

He leads her down to the first floor. The bass is pounding in his ears, lights are flashing in his eyes, and there are people pushing into him from all directions. He’s seen almost every single person they’ve passed look Diana up and down with desire in their eyes. But when he turns around to face her, she’s only looking at him.

Her hands on his body are insistent but gentle. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth. The movements of her body are liquid and familiar, and before long he stops caring about anything else. It’s hard to care about what’s happening around him when Diana is flush against him, moving her hips in ways that really shouldn’t be permitted in public, and once he gets over the shock of it he finds that she’s right—he can do it, and he actually does it quite well.

They don’t stay long—just a few songs, and then she puts her mouth by his ear and says _take me home._ In the back of a cab, she tells the driver their address and then gives Steve one of _those_ looks—the one where she’s asking him to kiss her without saying a word—and so he presses his lips against hers, cab driver audience be damned.

He kisses her again in the elevator, and then again outside their front door. When she finally gets the key in the lock and swings the door open they stumble over the threshold rather than break their kiss. He kicks the door shut behind him and walks her backward and straight into the dining table. Her hands are already on his belt, and he’s already grasping at the hem of her dress.

It’s not how he expected the night to end. He knew they’d end up doing _this,_ of course, but he’d assumed it would be in their bed. He imagined that he would peel the dress off her body slowly and reverently. He planned to take his time and take care of her first.

That’s not what ends up happening.

What happens instead occurs on top of their dining table instead of in their bed. It is quick and hard and unbearably, breathlessly good. It’s both of them still clothed, her dress gathered up around her waist, her nails raking across his shoulders as their harsh breathing shatters the dark silence of the apartment. It’s a forgotten mug of tea nearly tumbling off the table and onto the floor when he fumbles for something to hang onto, something to give him leverage when she whispers _don’t stop_ in his ear.

And then she throws her head back and gasps, her body arching off the table, and it’s probably one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. It sends him immediately over the edge too, and he buries his face in the curve of her neck just before his mind goes gloriously, blissfully blank.

When he comes back to himself, her hands are tracing patterns across his back. He lifts his head from off her chest and looks at her. She smiles at him, her dark eyes soft and affectionate.

“You like this table,” she murmurs.

“I...what?” he says. He’s still feeling a little hazy.

“The table,” she repeats, her fingers combing through his hair. “We have sex on this table at least once a month.”

He frowns. “We do?”

“February, the morning after we got back from Gotham after Barry brought you back,” she says matter of factly. “Before I went to work.”

“You had those leather boots on,” he says, remembering. “The ones that zip up to your knees.”

“March, that time I came home for lunch when you had a cold.”

“You made soup,” he answers. “From scratch. Best soup I ever had. I was just showing my appreciation.”

“April,” she continues, grinning. “After we got caught in the rain at the park.”

“You were soaked through and dripping,” he says. “I didn’t want to leave puddles all the way through the apartment.”

“May, when you got back from your trip to Rio with Clark. When you buzzed your hair.”

“I hadn’t seen you in a week,” he points out. “I missed you and this was the closest surface.”  

“And tonight,” she finishes. “June.”

“Mm, tonight,” he says, leaning forward to brush his lips over hers. “Tonight was good.”

“Tonight was very good,” she agrees. “Because you like this table.”

He shakes his head. “I like _you._ On any surface _._ ” He sucks lightly on her bottom lip. “Or when you levitate. That’s hot as hell.”

“And the club?” she murmurs into his mouth. “Did you like the club?”

“I still don’t think it’s dancing,” he says, pulling back a little.

“But?” she whispers, caressing his cheek.

He thinks of her body pressed against his in the dark, the rhythm of her hips matching the music.

“But I didn’t hate it,” he whispers back.

* * *

Diana is reading in bed when she hears a commotion outside her hotel door. She cocks her head and listens.

“Dude, stop. No wandering,” Barry’s voice says. “Stand right there. No, right _there._ Good. Now, where the heck is your card key?”

There’s a faint rapping on the door. “Diana?” Steve’s voice says hopefully.

Diana grins and climbs out of bed.

“I told you, she’s with Lois at the bachelorette party,” Diana hears Barry say as she crosses the room. “We’re not going to bother her.”

“But, I...hey. That painting is really ugly.”

“Dude, I said no wandering. Stay there. As soon as I can find your card key, we’re putting you to bed.”

“But I like being in bed with Diana,” Steve says sadly. “She’s a good cuddler.”

“Yeah, TMI man,” Barry says.

Diana swings the door open. Barry looks up at her in surprise, his hand buried in Steve’s front pocket. “This is not what it looks like,” he says, pulling his hand free. “I was just looking for his card key.”

“Diana,” Steve says happily. He tilts toward her, his arms outstretched, and she folds him into a hug. He leans against her heavily, buries his face in her neck, and sighs contentedly. “I missed your smell.”

Diana grins at Barry over Steve’s shoulder and runs her fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck. “I take it you guys had some alcohol at the bachelor party?”

“That feels so good I might die,” Steve mutters into her neck.

Barry looks sheepish. “Yeah,” he answers. “Arthur got behind the bar and mixed us all some drinks, and let’s just say Bruce and Steve are a little worse for the wear.”

Steve straightens. “I am _fine._ But Bruce is a _mess._ ” He squints at Diana. “God, you’re beautiful.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Barry says to Diana. “Sorry if we woke you.”

“I was up,” Diana assures him.

“Oh no,” Steve says sadly. “Did I ruin it?” He rounds on Barry and sticks his finger in the speedster’s face. “Did you make her leave the lady party to take care of me?”

“No, Steve,” Diana says, smoothing her hands over her boyfriend’s shoulders. “It’s okay. I was already here.”

Steve frowns at her over his shoulder. “But s’early.”

“It’s two in the morning,” she tells him.

“Two,” he repeats, his eyebrows furrowing. “Two in the...oh. Well. That’s late. But also early. Late early, early late.” He squints at Barry. “You have a very nice jaw.”

Diana presses her lips together so she won’t laugh. Barry grins at her. “Your boy’s an affectionate drunk,” he tells her.

“Excuse me, I am _always_ affa—affecsha—whatever, you know what I mean,” Steve slurs, waving his hand. “I do PDA and shit all the time now. Diana likes it. She likes to be kissed in public.”

“TMI,” Barry says again.

Steve tilts toward the speedster and lowers his voice. “In private, she likes—”

“Hush,” Diana cuts him off, wrapping her hands around his biceps and pulling him back toward her. “Barry doesn’t need to know that. Let’s go to bed, love.”

“That’s her nickname for me,” Steve says, grinning at Barry. “I’m her love. Cause she loves me.”

“That’s great, man,” Barry says, smirking. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Clark said be there at 2:00 pm sharp. Should give you time to sleep it off.”

“Sleep is for losers,” Steve scoffs. “Imma go love on my girl.” Steve grins at Diana. “That’s you. You’re my girl.”

“I would hope so,” she laughs. She smiles at Barry. “Thank you.”

“Sure. Here’s his phone.” Barry holds out a cell phone. “I took it cause he kept trying to text you and I figured you were with Lois.”

“Sext,” Steve says. “It’s called sexting. I’m very good at it. One time—”

“Steve,” Diana interrupts, brushing her fingers over his lips. “Barry doesn’t need to know that, either.”

“I’m going to leave before he says something I don’t want to hear,” Barry says. He winks at Diana. “Night, Di.” He disappears with a gust of air.

“Shit, that’s cool,” Steve sighs, staring down the hallway. “I wish I could run fast. All I can do is shoot stuff.”

“You are an excellent shot,” Diana assures him. “The best of anyone in the League.”

“But nobody else shoots stuff,” Steve pouts, swaying a little. “So that’s like saying I’m the best at being born in a different century.”

“You are,” Diana tells him, kissing him lightly on his cheek. “Now come on. Let’s get you into bed.”

Steve lets her usher him into the room. She closes and locks the door behind her, and then leads him to the bed.

“S’nice room,” Steve announces, glancing around.

“Sit,” Diana tells him, guiding him onto the bed. He plops down, bouncing a little on the mattress. Diana kneels in front of him and starts to untie his shoes.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, reaching out to tug gently on a strand of her hair.

She smiles up at him. “I don’t mind. I’m sure you’d do the same for me.”

“If you were drunk I would take care of you _so_ good,” he promises, still twirling her hair around his fingers. He tilts his head, and for a second he looks almost sober. “Have you ever been drunk?”

“No.”

“You’re really missing out. Feels kind of like floating.”

“I actually can float,” she says with a smirk, pulling his shoe off.

He suddenly shoots up off the bed, and if she wasn’t a goddess with remarkable reflexes, she’s pretty sure he would’ve kneed her right in the face.

“Steve,” she chastises.

“Di,” he says, his eyes wide with excitement. “I almost forgot. Look what I learned.” He goes still all of a sudden, and his nose scrunches adorably.

“Steve?” she asks, staring up at him.

“I just called you Di.”

“So?”

“So Barry calls you Di. And Clark. And Arthur. And Vic.”

“Okay?”

“But you don’t have sex with them.”

She grins. “No, I do not.”

Steve scratches his chin and looks thoughtful. “You did have sex with Bruce for a while. What did he call you when you guys did it?”

“Steve,” Diana says, a little appalled.

He waves his hand. “Nevermind, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. I just don’t want to call you what they call you. I should call you something different.” His face brightens. “I do! I call you angel.” He frowns again. “Is it weird to call you angel when you’re a goddess?”

Diana gets to her feet. “No. I like it.”

He grins goofily, wraps his arms around her waist, and pulls her close. “I like _you._ ”

“I like you too,” she says, smiling. “But we need to take your other shoe off and get you into bed. So I need you to sit down and sit still, okay?”

Steve stares down at his feet. “Why did I only take one shoe off?”

“Because you remembered that you wanted to show me something you learned.”

“Ohmygodyes,” he says in an excited rush. “Watch!” He pushes her away from him, sets his feet, and then starts to wiggle his hips. He hops forward, wiggles them again, and then hops backward and does another wiggle.

Diana presses her hand over her mouth and tries very, very hard not to laugh. “What are you doing?” she asks, trying to keep her voice even.

“Dancing!” he exclaims. He glances up, sees her amusement, and frowns. “Okay, so maybe it looks weird without music. It has its own song. Can you play it?”

“What’s it called?”

“Wibble!”

Diana blinks at him. “Wibble?”

“Wibble,” he repeats.

She shakes her head. “That’s not a word, love.”

“It _is_ a word,” he insists. “Wibble.” He frowns. “Wabble?” He frowns deeper, and then his face breaks out into a massive grin. “WOBBLE!” he shouts.

“Oh, Steve,” Diana sighs. She puts her hands on either side of his face and grins at him. She’s never actually seen him drunk before—only tipsy—and she can barely stand how adorable he is. “Did the guys teach you how to do the wobble?”

“Yes!” he answers. “Vic said I’m the wobble master.” He starts to hop and wiggle his hips. “Wobble baby, wobble baby, wobble baby, wobble,” he sings as he shimmies in the middle of their hotel room. He does some more of the steps, grinning the whole time, and then suddenly he sways and stumbles.

Diana catches him before he tumbles to the floor. “My hero,” he says, grinning up at her. He brushes his hand over her cheek. “My beautiful hero,” he murmurs, his voice softer.

She presses her lips to his brow. “Come on,” she murmurs. “Let’s get you in bed before you hurt yourself.”

She manages to get him to stand still long enough to take his other shoe off, and his socks, but the moment she finishes unbuttoning his shirt and slips it off his shoulders, he grins.

“Oh look,” he says, his voice practically a purr. “I have no shirt on.” He flexes his abs. “Oh. Look at that. Abs.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “You like my abs.”

She can’t resist the urge to tease him. “I have never said that.”

“Didn’t have to,” he says confidently. “You touch ‘em all the time. You like ‘em. Admit it.”

She traces the pads of her fingers along the indentations of his muscles. “I do,” she confesses. She reaches for his belt and begins to unbuckle it.

“Are you going to steal my virtue?” he says, his voice lifting hopefully.

“No,” she says with a quiet laugh. “Not when you’re drunk.”

“Consent,” he says sagely, nodding his head. “Consent is important.”

“Yes.”

“Well I give you my consent,” he declares, holding his arms out wide. “You may do with me what you please.”

She finishes with his belt and unbuttons then unzips his pants. “You can’t give consent when you are drunk, Steve.”

“What if I sign something while I’m sober that says, like, dear Diana when I am drunk you can still have your wicked way with me love Steve.”

“No,” she laughs. She curls her fingers into his waistband, and pulls his jeans down. He holds onto her shoulder as he steps out of them. She straightens.

“So no sexy time,” he says, pouting a little.

“Not tonight,” she answers.

“But only cause I’m drunk as a skunk,” he mutters, waving his index finger in her face. “Not because you don’t want me.”

She smiles and pushes his hair back from his forehead. “I always want you, Steve.”

“I am pretty dreamy,” he tells her. “Also, the sex is really great. _Super_ great.” He snorts. “Super sex. Cause you’re a superhero. Get it?”

“Yes,” she laughs. “Now let’s go. Get in bed.” She ushers him toward the bed.

“You’re getting in too, right?” he says over his shoulder.

“Yes.”

He climbs beneath the sheets, and she turns the bedside light off and then follows. He holds his arm out, and she curls herself into the side of his body. He buries his face in the crown of her hair and inhales.

“You smell good,” he whispers. “Barry says you smell like flowers.”

“You talk about how I smell with Barry?” she asks, tracing a pattern over his chest.

“Mhmm,” he hums sleepily. “We talk about you all the time. They’re all crazy about you. Love you tons. Not like I love you, though. I love you like...like…”

He trails off. For a long moment, the only sound is his deep, steady breathing. She thinks he’s fallen asleep, so she’s startled when he tightens his arm around her and whispers, “I love you like Clark loves Lois.”

Diana thinks of that day in front of the Superman monument, the day they’d brought Clark back from the dead. He had fought them until Lois appeared. He had no idea who he was until Lois told him. He had believed her instantly and unquestioningly. She was his anchor. His beacon of hope.

“I love you like that too,” she whispers.

* * *

Sometimes when Diana has nightmares, she does not scream. She just wakes with a start, her chest heaving, her breath caught in her throat.

Tonight is one of those nights. Steve does not wake when she bolts upright. She looks over at him, her eyes trailing over his body. His chest is rising and falling. He’s alive, despite what her dreams have told her. Tomorrow, they will leave for a vacation in the Alps. In a week, he will be immortal. If the spell works, she will get to keep him forever.

_If_ it works.

Diana gets out of bed. She pulls on one of Steve’s sweatshirts and then she opens the French doors, steps out onto the terrace, and closes the doors behind her.

It is cold. It’s snowing. She lifts her face to the night sky, closes her eyes, and feels the snowflakes melt on her skin.

She hears the terrace doors open and close behind her. A few seconds later, Steve’s arms wrap tightly around her from behind. She turns her head to the side. “It’s cold,” she whispers.

He presses a kiss to her temple. “Then you’ll have to hold me close.”

She turns in his arms. She’s glad to see that he’s wearing pants and a heavy sweatshirt, but it’s cold enough that he must still feel the chill down to his bones. She pulls him closer. He pushes her hair back from her face, and then reaches down and curls his hand around one of hers. He lifts their hands, curves his other arm around her waist, and starts to sway with her.

“Always dancing,” she murmurs, smiling.

“Always,” he says into her hairline.

She caresses the back of his neck. “We started in Veld and we never stopped.”

He leans back to look her in the eye. “That’s when I knew I loved you,” he whispers.

“Me too,” she whispers back. She leans forward and brushes her lips lightly over his. “I’ll never stop,” she promises.

He presses his forehead to hers. “Neither will I.”


	2. Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, this thing is SO LONG. Like, if I hadn't promised that they'd all be one shots this would have easily been three chapters. Also, for the record, I am really really sorry about all the angst you're about to read. So terribly sorry.

The minute they walk into the cave, Steve knows something very, very evil dwells there.

He is deep in the Irish countryside, standing at the edge of a massive underground cavern. A small stream gurgles down the center of the room, and huge stalactites are hanging from the ceiling. Several openings are cut into the cave walls, including the rocky corridor that he just passed through with Diana, Clark, and Constantine.

They’re here in search of one of the artifacts on Constantine’s list—a silver-plated chalice encrusted with rubies. Constantine said he had a good feeling about this one; his contacts in Ireland assured him that the cave was, in fact, the location of the chalice. Unfortunately, Constantine’s contacts were also certain of something else—the chalice is protected by an ancient being that the nearby villagers call _the guardian._

There were a lot of local rumors about the guardian. Most of them revolved around her use of the chalice. The stories went something like this: Every few decades, the guardian left her cave to kidnap half a dozen strong, able-bodied men. She then drained their blood into the chalice and drank it, a process which kept her from aging and enhanced her magic.

Supposedly, in exchange for the lives she’d taken, she used her magic to keep evil spirits away from the village. Steve thought that sounded like a pretty shitty deal, and Clark seemed to agree. After the seventh time of hearing the same story from a different family, Diana was apoplectic with rage. “She’s not a guardian,” she whispered angrily to Steve in the back of a pub. “She doesn’t protect the chalice or the village. She exploits them.”

“You’re right,” Steve told her. “So let’s go get her.”

He’d figured with a sorcerer like Constantine and two fighters like Diana and Clark, it would be a piece of cake. But if the cold sense of foreboding that’s currently drilling down his spine is any indication, it’s going to be a lot harder than he thought.

“Diana,” Steve murmurs.

“I know,” she answers. Her shield is on her arm, and she is hovering close to him. “I feel it too.”

“Oh yeah,” Constantine says, rubbing his hands together. “This is the place.”

“So what do we do, search the cave for the chalice until she appears?” Steve asks.

“Don’t need to, mate,” Constantine says. “It’s right there.”

He points toward an outcropping of rock, and sure enough there is a silver chalice sitting on top.

“I’ll get it,” Diana says, stepping forward.

“Woah, wait a minute darlin,” Constantine says, taking advantage of the opportunity to curl his fingers around Diana’s arm. Diana glances down at his hand with an arched eyebrow, and Constantine releases her immediately. “You can’t just walk right up and grab it,” he tells her, gesturing at the chalice.

“Why not?” Diana asks.

“Well you said you felt it, right? That buzz in the air?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the hum of some very old, but very powerful protection spells. You get too close without breaking them down, hellish mayhem ensues.”

“I vote no on the hellish mayhem,” Clark says. He glances around with furrowed eyebrows. “The hair on the back of my neck is standing up.”

“Would’ve thought there was too much gel in it for that,” Constantine mutters, and then grins at his own joke.

Diana gives Steve one of her _I’m annoyed so please say something before I curse in Greek and punch someone_ looks. He winks at her. “Save the jokes, Constantine,” he says. “Just do your thing so we can get the chalice.”

“Testy lot today,” Constantine huffs. He sets his feet and holds his hands out. “Don’t know what you’re so worried about. I’m more than capable of protecting you from whatever this guardian broad’s got up her sleeve, chalice or no.”

A rush of cool air passes over them all, and then an even colder voice says, “Oh, I doubt that.”

The sound of Diana’s sword sliding out of its scabbard fills the cavern. Standing in front of the chalice is a small, red-headed woman. She looks young, no more than twenty or so. Her hair is long, reaching all the way down to her waist and hanging in waves. She is clad in a muddy brown dress with long sleeves and a golden hem.

Steve takes a small step forward so that he is standing next to Constantine and Clark. Diana follows, her movement so smooth it’s more like gliding than walking.

“We mean you no harm,” Steve says to the woman, figuring he might as well try negotiating first. He holds his empty hands out to show that he’s not holding his weapon, though he isn’t sure it’ll matter considering Diana’s already pulled her sword. “We’re just here for the chalice.”

The guardian fixes her eyes on Steve, and he feels an immediate sense of dread crash through his chest. Her eyes are a very vivid shade of green. They make him think of emeralds—beautiful, but hard and cold.

The guardian smiles, and it looks like a threat. “Ah but that _is_ harm, my child. It is _my_ chalice, you see.”

“We have heard the stories of what you have done with its power,” Diana says. “You have used it to exploit others for your own benefit. You have destroyed families and lives. We cannot let you keep it.”

The guardian’s gaze shifts to Diana as her smile dissolves. “You are no child.” She lifts her nose into the air and inhales deeply. She smiles. “You are nearly as old as I.”

Diana makes no response.

“What are you?” the guardian asks.

“I am an Amazon,” Diana answers.

The guardian shakes her head. “No, you are not. You carry yourself as an Amazon. You wear their armor and wield their weapons. But you are no Amazon.”

Constantine and Clark glance at Diana. Steve does too. Diana lifts her chin. “I am a daughter of Zeus,” she says.

“Ah,” the guardian says. “I thought I smelled the stench of divinity.”

Diana clenches her jaw but says nothing.

“And you,” the guardian says. Steve looks across the cavern at her, but she is looking at Clark. She inhales again. “You smell like the stars.”

Clark folds his arms over his chest. He looks amused. “I’m from Krypton.”

“The planet that is no more,” the guardian purrs. “Were you there when it exploded? It must have been quite traumatic to watch those you love dissolve into the nothingness of space.”

She says it as though they’re talking about the last book he read. Clark doesn’t look amused anymore. Steve feels a flash of irritation. Clark doesn’t need anybody to protect him. Neither does Diana. But still, Steve wishes he could.

“I was a baby,” Clark replies. “I don’t remember much.”

“How fortunate for you,” the guardian sneers.

“Uh, hello?” Constantine says, raising his hand. The guardian glances over at him. He gives her a dazzling smile. “Quick question while you’re still in sniffer mode—what do _I_ smell like? Devastatingly good sorcery? Devil-may-care, bad boy genes?”

The guardian curls her lip up in distaste. “Demon blood and cigarettes.”

Constantine grins at Steve. “That’s fair.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“And then there’s you,” the guardian says. This time when Steve looks at her, she’s looking back at him. “You are the only one in this group who is fully human.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Just a normal guy.”

“My favorite kind,” the guardian purrs, raking her eyes down his body. Steve is pretty sure she’s thinking about making him her next drink. Diana moves closer to him, her left shoulder and shield suddenly between him and the guardian.

The guardian grins at her now-blocked view, showing off a set of very white, very straight teeth. “Not _just_ a man, I see,” she says, leering at them. “You are the object of a goddess’s affections. Immortal falls for mortal. How tragically romantic.” Her eyes settle on Diana. “You take after your father, my dear.”

“Give us the chalice,” Clark says firmly. “And I promise you will be unharmed.”

“It’s been quite a long time since I last had visitors,” the guardian says, ignoring Clark’s request. Her gaze is still fixed on Diana. “So you’ll have to forgive my sight. It’s grown weak from disuse. But I see you both quite clearly now. In fact, I haven’t seen two souls this intertwined in centuries. The air of destiny is thick over you.”

Her proclamation makes Steve’s skin crawl, but Constantine snorts. “So is this so-called,” he raises his hands into a pair of air quotes, “ _air of destiny_ actually visible, or are you just using the old sniffer for it? And while we’re on the subject, what does destiny air actually look like?”

“Your future together is uncertain,” the guardian mutters at Diana darkly, ignoring Constantine just as she had ignored Clark.

“Uncertain like they could break up?” Constantine asks hopefully. Steve ceases being creeped out just long enough to give Constantine an annoyed look. The sorcerer shrugs. “Just asking for a friend,” he mutters.

“My patience is wearing thin,” Diana says to the guardian. “Give us the chalice.”

“I think not,” the guardian laughs. “You are not the first to come looking for its power, daughter of Zeus. I will not give it to you.”

“Then I will come and get it,” Diana says, her voice like silk-coated steel.

“I would like for you to try,” the guardian replies. “When you fail, I’ll drink your lover to the dregs.”

The guardian lifts her hands, but the moment she moves Diana steps fully in front of Steve with a look of righteous fury. “You won’t touch him.”

“How about you, then?” the guardian says with a smirk.

Steve isn’t sure what he’s waiting for—maybe a flash of light or a gust of magical wind or something. He’s got zero experience with ancient cave-dwelling vampire ladies who say creepy things like _I’ll drink your lover to the dregs,_ so he really doesn’t know what to expect. What he definitely does _not_ expect is for Diana to suddenly collapse in front of him, her legs crumpling beneath her as her body tumbles toward the floor.

“Diana,” he cries, darting forward to catch her.

She is limp in his arms, her eyes closed. Steve lowers her gently down to the ground and kneels next to her. Her chest is rising and falling with breath, but that doesn’t comfort him much.

“Oh _fuck_ no you didn’t,” Constantine snarls, and then suddenly everything Steve did expect to happen actually does—flashes of light and sound and gusts of frigid air are raging between the guardian and Constantine, the latter of which is shouting a violent string of threats and curses.

Steve doesn’t care to watch the fight. He’s too busy scanning Diana’s body, looking for some type of injury he can tend to, but there’s nothing. Clark is at his side in an instant, his red cape swirling behind him.

“Scan her,” Steve orders. He can’t stop touching her, his hands running over her body, still searching for a wound.

“She’s physically fine,” Clark says. “Heartbeat is strong, no broken bones or internal bleeding. Nothing is wrong.”

“Something’s definitely wrong.” Steve leans over her and runs the tips of his fingers along her cheek. “Diana,” he whispers. “Please, Diana, wake up.”

Her eyes flutter open.

Steve lets out a shaky breath. “Thank god,” he says. She looks up at him, and he smiles. “Hey. Way to give me a heart attack.”

Diana blinks at him for a moment, seemingly confused, and then her expression hardens. Her pupils dilate, growing bigger and bigger, and then suddenly her eyes are completely and terrifyingly black.

“Ares,” she breathes.

Steve frowns. “What?”

She moves so fast he doesn’t even see it—one second he’s gazing down at her and then the next second her fist is connecting with the side of his face, rocketing into his left cheekbone. He’s in his suit which means he’s wearing his mask, but he can still feel enough of the force behind her punch that it steals the breath right out of his lungs.

His body flies backward, and he lands on his back with a painful thud. He lays there for a moment, trying to breathe. He knows that the only reason every bone in his face didn’t just shatter is because of the nearly indestructible suit Bruce created for him. He’ll have to thank him later—for the thousandth time.

Right now, though, he needs to figure out why his girlfriend just punched him in the face.

“Shit,” he groans. His vision is swimming. He shakes his head, trying to focus, and the moment he does he realizes that Diana is towering over him, her face contorted in murderous rage.

“I’ll kill you,” she snarls.

She reaches for him but Clark gets there first, a red and blue blur that smashes into her side and sends her flying across the cavern.

“Are you okay?” Clark asks, looking down at Steve worriedly.

“I’m fine,” Steve says, getting to his feet. “She’s not.”

Diana’s furious roar echoes through the cavern. She barrels straight toward Steve. Clark intercepts her, and suddenly Superman and Wonder Woman are throwing punches at each other.

Steve stares at them, stunned. Clark is holding back, unwilling to hurt his friend, but Diana’s going full throttle—she’s trying her damndest to beat the shit out of one of her best friends, and because Clark is trying to be careful, she’s succeeding spectacularly.

“Constantine!” Steve shouts after Diana hurls a stalactite straight at Clark’s heart.

“Little busy, mate,” Constantine hollers back.

“What’s wrong with Diana?” Steve shouts at him anyway.

Constantine grits his teeth and sends a wave of green energy toward the guardian, who stumbles backward.

“Some kind of spell,” Constantine answers. “She doesn’t know who you are.”

“No shit,” Steve says.

“If I can knock this ugly broad unconscious it should break it,” the sorcerer replies. “Just hang tight.”

Diana sends Clark careening across the cavern. The moment the Kryptonian is out of her reach she turns, spots Steve, and strides toward him.

“Diana,” Steve says, holding his hands out. He does not cower away from her. He refuses. “It’s me. It’s Steve.”

Her lasso is out in an instant, whipping forward to wrap around his body and pin his arms at his sides. “How dare you speak his name,” she thunders.

She yanks hard on the lasso, and Steve lurches forward and falls to his knees before her. At some point she seems to have found her sword; she points the tip of it right at his heart, her black eyes alight with a hatred that he has never seen.

“You killed him,” she says, her voice a deep and guttural growl. “You took him from me, and I will end you for it.”

“Diana please,” Steve begs. “I’m not Ares. I’m Steve.”

Clark is back, wrenching the sword from Diana’s hand and flinging it across the cavern. He wraps both his arms around her body from behind, and she bellows in rage and tries desperately to get free.

“Stop it, Diana,” Clark commands in her ear. “It’s me. It’s Kal.”

“If you keep me from him, I’ll kill you too,” Diana shouts.

Steve gets to his feet, the lasso still wrapped around him.

“Get back, Steve,” Clark says.

“No,” Steve answers. He steps forward. “Diana, look at me.”

“Get _back_ Steve,” Clark snaps, gritting his teeth as Diana continues to twist violently in his arms. “She’ll kill you if you get too close.”

“No she won’t,” Steve says defiantly. “Diana, look at me. I’m Steve.”

“Steve is dead!” she screams. Her eyes are still shockingly black. “I will tear you limb from limb until there is nothing left of you but pieces and then I will crush them beneath my feet and laugh—”

“ _Please,_ angel.”

Diana goes still. For a brief moment the blackness in her eyes dims, and then it’s back with a vengeance. She snarls and lunges at him, and Clark tightens his grip on her.

“I told you,” Clark starts, but it’s too late—Steve’s already seen a glimmer of hope.

“Angel,” he repeats, leaning toward Diana. “That’s what Steve calls you, Diana. That’s what _I_ call you. You’re my angel.”

Her eyebrows contract in confusion. “Ares,” she growls.

“No,” he says firmly. “Look at me. I’m bound by your lasso. I can’t lie when I’m bound, you know that.”

Her eyes flutter down to the golden cord wrapped around his body. “You’re…”

“I’m Steve,” he says. “You killed Ares in 1918, Diana. You killed him a hundred years ago. What you’re seeing isn’t real. It’s just a spell. You’re under a spell.”

She looks up at him. The blackness is fading in her eyes, edging back into familiar brown. “Where…?”

“We’re in Ireland with Clark and Constantine,” Steve answers. “It’s 2019. Barry brought me back to you, and now we’re searching for artifacts that are going to make me immortal so I can be with you forever. Remember?”

She glances back down at the lasso. Steve remembers the first time he saw her after Barry ran him to the future, the grief in her voice when she pulled the lasso tight around him and demanded to know who he was because she could not believe that he was her Steve. The memory gives him an idea.

“We live together in Paris,” he tells her softly. “Across from a bakery that makes the best croissants I’ve ever had. We’re part of the Justice League. You work at the Louvre. Sometimes I pick you up from work and we eat ice cream and walk along the Seine. We have a cat. She likes you better than she likes me, but I don’t blame her. Who wouldn’t?”

He takes a step closer to her. “I’m not dead, angel. I’m right here. I’m your Steve.”

“Steve,” Clark warns.

“Steve,” Diana echoes in a whisper. There are still vestiges of black in her eyes, but they’re getting smaller.

The lasso loosens around Steve’s body, and then falls to the floor. He grins and reaches out to her, putting his hands on either side of her face. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.”

She shakes her head and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, they are blacker than they were a moment ago. “I can’t fight it,” she says, her voice lifting in desperation.

“Yes you can,” Steve insists, still holding her face. “Just remember what’s real. Say it back to me.”

“I killed Ares.”

“Yes.”

“Barry brought you back.”

“Yes.”

The blackness starts to fade from her eyes again. She leans toward him, still wrapped in Clark’s arms. “I love you,” she whispers.

Steve can feel his heart in his throat. He does not break eye contact with her when he says, “Let her go, Clark.”

“No.”

Steve shifts his gaze from Diana to Clark. “She can fight it.”

“She’s too dangerous,” Clark insists. “When Constantine takes care of the guardian I’ll let her go.”

Annoyance pulses in Steve’s veins. “She can fight this if you let her,” he says angrily. “You have to trust her. She needs your faith.”

“Steve,” Diana chokes.

Steve looks back at her. Her eyes are fading into darkness again.

“Run,” she whispers.

Every last trace of brown in Diana’s eyes turns black as midnight. She wrenches free from Clark’s grasp and hurls herself at Steve, and the last thing Steve remembers before he loses consciousness is excruciating pain.

* * *

Clark lets his guard down for one second—just for _one second_ because he’s so taken aback by the furious certainty in Steve’s voice about needing to have faith in Diana—and that’s all it takes.

Diana pulls free of his grip and lunges at Steve, her shoulder ramming straight into the center of his body. The two of them go flying backward and crash into one of the walls of the cave. The collision is so forceful that the stone wall buckles against Steve’s body, cracks spidering out from the point of impact as the whole cavern shakes like there’s been an earthquake.

Diana straightens. Steve slumps against the stone wall and then crumples onto the ground, his body completely still. Diana bends forward and reaches for him, but Clark shoots forward to stop her.

“No,” he roars, slamming her into the wall a few feet from where she’d crashed with Steve. He pulls back, curls his fingers around her throat, and hauls her into the air. “Come on, Diana,” he growls. “Remember who you are.”

She glares down at him, her eyes jet black. She digs her nails into his hand. “I know who I am,” she snarls. “I am Diana of Themyscira, daughter of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. The god of war is mine. And if you—”

There is a deafening boom somewhere behind Clark that drowns out the rest of what Diana is saying. Clark keeps his eyes fixed on his friend, trusting that Constantine is the one who caused the boom rather than the one receiving it.

The black suddenly disappears from Diana’s eyes just as quickly as it came. The angry frown on her forehead smoothes out beneath her diadem, and her hands go slack on his.

“Kal,” she whispers.

He does not let her go, not even at the sound of his Kryptonian name. He will not make the same mistake twice. “I won’t let you go,” he tells her.

“Don’t,” she begs, squeezing his forearm. “Don’t let me go.”

“Ding dong the witch is dead,” Constantine says, appearing at Clark’s side. “Well, not dead but…” He trails off at the sight of Steve’s crumpled body.

“You’re sure?” Clark asks him.

“Yeah,” Constantine answers. He moves forward and kneels next to Steve, his fingers finding the pulsepoint on the captain’s neck.

Clark releases Diana. She drops gracefully to her feet and turns immediately toward Steve. Clark hears the breath rush out of her lungs in a horrified sob. Her knees buckle. He puts his hands out to steady her.  

“No,” she breathes, her voice breaking. She starts toward Steve, her arms outstretched, and then she suddenly recoils as though she’s been shocked. She glances down at her hands, and then back up at Steve. The look on her face breaks Clark’s heart.

“He’s still got a pulse but it’s weak,” Constantine says, glancing at them over his shoulder.

Clark scans Steve’s body. “His ribs and sternum and a few of his organs are crushed. He’s bleeding internally, and it’s heavy. He needs to get to a hospital now.”

He leans down to gather Steve in his arms, but Constantine puts his hands on Steve’s chest and says, “No.”

“No?” Clark says, looking up at the sorcerer. “He’s going to die—”

“If you take him to a hospital he will,” Constantine tells him. “They’re going to slap him on an operating table and crack open his chest but there’s nothing they can do for him. There’s too much damage. I can fix him.”

“These are catastrophic injuries.”

“Then you should let me get started before it gets worse,” Constantine answers, his jaw set in determination.

Clark turns toward Diana. “It’s your call.”

Diana is staring at Steve, her eyes shining with unshed tears and her arms hanging limply at her sides. Clark has never seen her look so devastated.

“I’m the best chance he’s got, darlin,” Constantine says gently.

Diana closes her eyes. “Do it.”

Constantine leans over Steve immediately and begins to chant. Clark glances at Diana but she has turned away, her head buried in her hands. Clark hesitates, unsure whether he should stay by Steve’s side or go to Diana’s, and then he straightens and moves toward her.

When he puts his hands on her shoulders, she does not turn toward him. “Diana—”

“Don’t.”

Clark swallows the rest of his sentence, but he does not take his hands off her shoulders. For a long time, the sound of Constantine’s chanting echoes through the cavern. When he finally falls silent, Diana’s shoulders tense beneath Clark’s hands.

“Diana,” Steve’s voice gasps.

Diana whirls around, her eyes wide and desperate, but Constantine waves his hand over Steve’s face and the captain’s eyes immediately flutter closed.

“What did you do?” Diana demands.

“I rebuilt his insides,” Constantine says tiredly. “He’s fixed, but his body went through some serious trauma. If he wakes up now, he’ll go into shock from the pain.”

“So you put him to sleep?” Clark asks.

Constantine nods. “Yeah. Day or two of rest and he’ll be good as new.”

“You’re sure that he’s…?” Diana asks, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Clark has always thought of Constantine as a bit of an insufferable jerk, and so he bristles at the vulnerability in Diana’s voice. If Constantine answers her with even a trace of sarcasm or accusation, Clark is going to—

“Yes,” Constantine says gently, getting to his feet. “He’s fine. He’ll have some bruises and soreness, but he’ll be right as rain come Monday morning.” The sorcerer shoots a small smile at Clark. “Better scan him, mate. It’ll make her feel better.”

Diana looks pleadingly at Clark, and he immediately scans Steve. All the damage he’d seen in his last scan is gone. Clark smiles down at Diana. “Looks perfect. His heartbeat is strong.”

Diana closes her eyes and lets out a shaky breath. “Thank you.” She opens her eyes and looks at Constantine. “John, I—”

“Don’t mention it,” Constantine says, waving her off in what appears to be genuine humility. “Probably want to get him out of this nasty cave and back home though, yeah?”

“Yes,” Diana says. She swallows hard, and then turns to Clark. “Can you fly him home?”

Clark stares at her. “Diana, you’re not—”

“Please,” she cuts him off. She glances over at Steve’s sleeping form, and Clark can see the fear plainly on her face. “I don’t trust myself,” she whispers.

Her voice is so anguished that Clark barely resists the urge to fold her into a hug. “Yeah, of course.”

“Here,” Constantine says. He lifts his hand, and the silver chalice arcs through the air and lands in his palm with a smack. “Take this with you.”

Clark takes the chalice from him, and then bends down to gather Steve into his arms.

“I’m going to take the ugly broad to our other vampiric friend, Amanda Waller,” Constantine says. He looks over at Diana. “Unless you want to smack her around a little first?”

Diana shakes her head.

“I’ll _accidentally_ drop her on her head for you when I get to D.C.,” Constantine says with an impish grin. He winks, and then trudges off in the direction of the crumpled body of the guardian.

Clark turns toward Diana with Steve in his arms. “Meet us there?”

She nods.

* * *

Diana beats Clark and Steve back to Paris. Clark is flying both slowly and carefully, given that he’s holding a very powerful magical artifact and a soundly sleeping man, but that’s not why Diana gets there first.

She doesn’t realize how fast she’s going until she hears the sonic boom somewhere over Wales. It doesn’t slow her down. She just keeps flying faster and faster, trying not to think about Steve’s slumped and unconscious body, trying to forget the fear in his eyes just before she smashed his insides to a pulp.

At some point, she begins to fantasize about what it would be like if she was as fast as Barry and could go back and do it all over again. She could beg Steve to wait outside the cave, or beg Clark to heat vision the guardian the moment she appeared. Or maybe she could just be stronger, and fight the spell the way Steve trusted she would. He had been so unwavering in his faith, so sure that she wouldn’t hurt him.

And then she did.

She tells herself the tears aren’t really tears—her eyes are just watering from the breakneck speed at which she’s flying. But even when her feet touch down on her terrace and there is no more wind in her face, there is still wetness crowding the corners of her eyes.

When she opens the terrace door to the bedroom, she spots Leesi curled and asleep at the foot of the bed. The cat picks up its head and meows softly at her. Diana crosses the room and strokes her fingers gently along Leesi’s spine. The cat starts to purr immediately. Diana remembers the way Steve’s eyes lit up when Leesi purred for him for the first time, and then what he had said to her back in the cave. _She likes you better than she likes me, but I don’t blame her. Who wouldn’t?_

Leesi’s body feels frail beneath her fingers, just as Steve’s body had felt when she smashed him into a stone wall, and Diana pulls her hand back to her chest quickly. The cat blinks up at her, still purring, completely oblivious to the havoc that her hands have caused. Diana presses her lips together and turns away.

She strips her armor off and puts it away carefully, and then pulls on a pair of shorts and a tank top. She usually sleeps in Steve’s shirts, but she can’t bring herself to put one on. She stands in the closet for a long moment, trying to get ahold of herself before Clark arrives. Leesi rubs along her ankles, but Diana ignores her.

She’s pulling a t-shirt out of Steve’s dresser when Clark touches down lightly outside on the terrace. She turns, and watches as Clark sets Steve gently onto the bed. Diana stares at Steve, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“His pulse is still strong,” Clark tells her gently. When Diana looks up at him, there is compassion etched into his expression. “I scanned him again. Everything is fine. He’s okay.”

Diana holds out the clothes in her hand. “Can you…?”

Clark frowns, confused.

“He shouldn’t sleep in the suit,” she explains.

Understanding smoothes the frown on Clark’s face, and then his eyebrows gather in sympathy. “Diana, you can’t—”

“Clark,” she cuts him off. “Please. I hurt him enough already.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes it was.”

“What are you going to do, Di? Never touch him again?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Clark folds his arms over his chest. “Too bad.”

“If you won’t help me, I’ll call Barry,” she threatens quietly.

Barry could be there in minutes, and there is nothing he wouldn’t do for her. Clark knows that. He stares at her, clearly trying to decide whether he should call her bluff, but in the end he sighs and leans forward to begin undressing Steve. When Diana catches her first glimpse of the bruises painting his skin, a tidal wave of shame crashes over her. She turns away, her hand pressed over her mouth.

“Done,” Clark says a few minutes later.

Diana turns back around. “Thank you,” she murmurs sincerely.

He fixes his eyes on her with a steely look of resolve. “You can’t hang onto this,” he tells her. “It will destroy you. Both of you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re the goddess of truth,” he says, sounding almost hurt. “You’re not supposed to lie.”

Even after the traumatic events of the night, his words feel like a punch in the gut. Her throat tightens, and she can feel her eyes beginning to warm with tears. She swallows.

“I’m tired,” she whispers.

She can barely handle the kindness in his eyes, because it makes her want to cross the room and bury her head in his chest and cry. She doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says gently. He points at his ear. “I’ll keep an ear out. Just say the word, and I’ll be here.”

Diana nods because she doesn’t trust her voice. She watches his cape flutter behind him as he takes off from the terrace, and then she glances down at Steve.

She’s exhausted, and all she wants to do is crawl into bed, put her head on his chest, and listen to his heartbeat. Instead, she sits in the armchair that’s in the corner of the room. Leesi rubs against her legs for a while, but Diana does not pet her. Eventually, the cat gives up and curls up at the foot of the bed by Steve’s feet.

Diana stays where she is, and watches Steve breathe in his sleep.

* * *

The next evening, Constantine materializes in the middle of Diana and Steve’s bedroom.

It’s been just over twelve hours since Clark left, and Diana has not moved from the chair. She has not slept, or eaten, or checked her phone. She has only watched the gentle rise and fall of Steve’s chest, and agonized over what she will say to him when he wakes up.

When Constantine appears, she reaches immediately for her hip. He holds his hands out. “Whoa, it’s just me.”

Diana blinks at him, startled.

“Just came to check on Trev,” he explains.

Diana lets go of her lasso and sits back in the chair. She should probably chastise him for materializing uninvited into the middle of her bedroom. She can’t bring herself to care enough to be annoyed.

“How is he?” Constantine asks.

“Asleep,” she answers. She waits for a sarcastic reply, but he does not offer one. Despite the fact that she did not invite him, she’s almost glad he came. She has some questions.

“Are you sure the spell is broken?” she asks him quietly. Her eyes are fixed on Steve, but she can feel Constantine staring at her.

“Yeah. No need to worry yourself sick.”

There’s concern in his voice, but she ignores it. “Can she cast it again?”

“Not from A.R.G.U.S. headquarters. There are power dampeners there, and even if she was strong enough to override them, you’re too far away for her to reach.”

Diana doesn’t reply.

“Without the chalice, she’s considerably weaker,” Constantine adds. “The longer she’s away from it—and the longer she goes without sucking anyone dry—the weaker she’ll get. She won’t bother you again, darlin. I swear it.”

It should comfort her, but it doesn’t. Too much damage has already been done.

She looks down at the arm of the chair and tries to breathe around the stranglehold of guilt. She’d bought this chair with Steve not long after he moved in with her. They went to four different furniture stores until they found one they both liked. _We should get something that’s functional,_ he told her innocently between the second and third store. _And by functional you mean something we can have sex on,_ she answered. He’d clicked his tongue at her in mock disapproval. _Always thinking about me naked,_ he said. _Always,_ she confirmed with a smile.

The memory leaves her feeling raw. “What was the spell?” she asks Constantine, trying to keep her voice level.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I think it had something to do with making you think Steve was your worst enemy.”

Diana nods. She has a lot of enemies. If someone had asked her a few days ago, she’s not sure she would have said that Ares was her worst. After all, the god of war is defeated and dead, and she’s had Steve back for over a year now.

But the guardian must have known about her and Steve’s past, or at least parts of it. She had known that Diana was divine, and that Clark was from another planet, and that Constantine had demon blood. She had said that their souls were intertwined, and that they had a destiny. It’s not hard to believe that if she could see all that, she could see what they’d been through before.

She’d seen their current state, too. _Your future together is uncertain._ At the time, Diana had merely been annoyed. After everything she and Steve had been through together, _uncertain_ was the last word she would use to describe their relationship. He was hers and she was his, full stop. There wasn’t anything or anyone—on this planet or another—that could convince her otherwise. There was no enemy they couldn’t face and defeat together.

She hadn’t counted on turning into the enemy herself.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” Constantine says gently. “It wasn’t really you. Trev knows that.”

Diana finally looks at him. “I could have fought it.”

He shakes his head. “No one can—”

“I can,” she cuts him off. “I’ve done it before. And I did it yesterday.” She drops her gaze back to Steve’s body. “Just not long enough.”

Constantine gapes at her. “How?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. She doesn’t want to talk about her previous experiences with magic. Even now, all these years later, everything that happened with Circe still haunts her, and she has no interest in reliving that nightmare with someone like John Constantine. The only person she’s ever talked about it with is Steve, and she plans to keep it that way.

“I thought I was fighting Ares again,” she tells Constantine instead. “And then Steve—”

She stops abruptly. Another memory crashes over her, and for a second she can hear Steve’s voice, clear as a bell. _Angel. That’s what Steve calls you, Diana. That’s what I call you. You’re my angel._

She doesn’t think he should call her that anymore. She doesn’t deserve it.

“Steve what?” Constantine prompts.

Diana avoids his eyes. “He reminded me who he was.”

“And you just, what, snapped out of it?”

“Not completely.” She stares down at her hands. “It was like looking at a lenticular print. He was Ares, and then suddenly he was Steve. If I concentrated on Steve, I could feel the spell start to fade.”

When she looks up at him, he is grinning at her. “Unbelievable,” he breathes. “Maybe it’s something in your divine genes. Or maybe…” His eyes widen. “The guardian said you and Trev’s souls are intertwined. Maybe that connection was strong enough to override the spell. Who knows. I tell you what though, darlin, I always knew you were impressive but this is just—”

“Impressive?” Diana interrupts quietly. The smile freezes on Constantine’s face. “It would have been impressive if I’d succeeded,” she tells him. “I didn’t. I failed. And I nearly killed him in the process.”

Constantine puts a hand on his chest. “It was my fault,” he says. There is no softness in his voice, no uncertainty. He says it as though it is an indisputable fact. “You took me along because you knew there’d be magic. I was there to protect you—and Steve—and I didn’t. I’m the one that failed, Diana. Not you.”

Diana looks over at Steve, and the shining bruises on the left side of his face. She knows there are more beneath his shirt, vivid and dark on his skin.

She shakes her head. “We both failed.”

* * *

The next morning, Diana bends over Steve and calls his name.

He does not stir. She doesn’t want to wake him, but Constantine had been very clear with her last night before he disappeared.

“You need to wake him up tomorrow morning. Right around the thirty-six hour mark. So,” he glanced at his watch, “around eight. If you don’t, his brain will start to get used to the sleep spell, and it’ll get harder and harder to pull him out.”

She doesn’t really have a choice anyway. Her assistant called an hour ago to say that their recent shipment from Spain is a mislabeled mess, and the exhibit is supposed to be open for a private event for investors in two days. It’s going to take her and her entire staff almost every second of the next two days to sort through everything.

In a way, she thinks it might actually be a blessing in disguise. She doesn’t want to leave his side, but being close to him is a painful reminder of what she did. She’s fairly certain he’ll want some space from her anyway, given that she’d tried to murder him and nearly succeeded. With her busy at work, he’ll have plenty of time to figure out where he wants their relationship to go from here.

If he even wants it to go anywhere at all.

“Steve,” she calls again, pushing the thought away.

He still doesn’t move. She doesn’t want to touch him—she hasn’t since she almost killed him. Part of the reason she’s kept her distance is because even despite Constantine’s assurances, she’s afraid that touching him will somehow send her right back under the spell. Another part of it is because he’s got bruises on a significant portion of his body; she’s hurt him enough already, and she does not want to hurt him more.

Most of it, though, is because she just doesn’t think she deserves the privilege anymore.

But it doesn’t appear as though she has a choice if she wants him to wake up. So, she puts her hand hand on his shoulder and shakes him very, very gently. “Steve.”

He bolts upright and gasps, “Diana!”

Diana moves back from the bed quickly and smoothly, putting some distance between them so he won’t be startled and cower away from her. Steve looks around the room with wide eyes, his hands fisted in the blankets.

“I’m home,” he says in wonder, his voice scratchy with disuse. He looks over at her, blinking slowly. His gaze flickers down her body, and then back up to her eyes.  

“The spell is broken,” she assures him. “I won’t hurt you.”

He starts to climb out of bed, but stops immediately with a grunt and a wince. Shame pierces through her chest, white-hot and terrible. _You did that to him,_ she thinks.

“Don’t get up,” she tells him softly. “Your body has been through a lot. You need to rest.”

He stares at her as though she’s speaking a language he doesn’t understand. His hair is mussed, and his shirt is rumpled and stretched over his chest, and the desire to cross the room and melt into his arms and beg him to forgive her is so overwhelming that she’s incapable of saying anything else.

“What happened?” he asks.

She hadn’t considered that he wouldn’t remember anything. Her heart plummets. “The guardian cast a spell,” she starts, but that’s all she can manage to say. She swallows and tries to figure out how to explain it.

“I remember that part,” he says to her gently.

She looks up at him in surprise, and finds that there isn’t even a trace of fear or anger in his gaze. Her heart throbs in her chest, longing to be close to him. She stays where she is.

“I meant after that,” he says. “After I lost consciousness.”

She looks back at the floor. “Constantine healed you,” she answers. “And then he put you to sleep so that your body could rest.”

“How long was I out?”

“Thirty-six hours.”

He lets out a low whistle. “What happened to the guardian?”

“She’s in D.C. at A.R.G.U.S. headquarters.”

“And the chalice?”

“Clark took it to Bruce.”

A long silence stretches between them.

“Are you okay?” he asks eventually.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Diana glances up in time to see him climbing out of bed, his expression pinched in what she can only assume is pain. “Steve,” she says, taking a step back when he takes a step toward her. He stops, frowning a little. “You should stay in bed,” she says.

He shakes his head. “I slept for 36 hours. I don’t need any more rest.”

“Your body—” she starts to say, but then he takes another step toward her and she takes another step back.

This time, there is a hint of amusement on his face when he stops. “Are you afraid of me?” he teases, the corner of his mouth lifting up.

“Please don’t joke about that.”

Even she can hear the anguish in her voice. The humor dissolves immediately from his face. “Diana,” he murmurs.

He moves toward her, and she moves back, but he doesn’t stop this time—he just keeps coming toward her and she just keeps backing up and then her shoulder blades bump against the glass door of the terrace and there’s nowhere else to go.

He does not crowd into her space. He stops close enough to touch her, but doesn’t. She wants to reach out to him, wants to wrap her arms around him and press her body against his, but she doesn’t trust herself and she doesn’t deserve to touch him so she just stands there, her arms hanging at her sides. He stares at her, and she stares at a spot on his collarbone. The words well up in her chest along with something else, a desperation that’s acidic in the back of her throat.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice wavering.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. He’s wrong. But there is nothing she can say to make up for what she did, and even if there was she can’t seem to find her voice.

“Diana, look at me.”

She forces herself to meet his gaze.

He holds his arms out, his palms turned up toward the ceiling. “Come here,” he says quietly.

She shakes her head. She can’t.

He waits, but she does not change her mind. He steps closer to her, lifts his hand, and brushes it over her cheek. She flinches at his touch. He does not pull back.

“I’m not afraid of you.” His voice is confident and sure, his blue eyes fixed intently on hers.

“Maybe you should be,” she murmurs.

Compassion races over his face. “No, angel,” he breathes, leaning closer.

The words are tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop them. “Please don’t call me that.”

He stares at her, stunned, but also clearly hurt. The silence is deafening as it hovers between them, and then a loud buzzing sound interrupts it.

It’s Diana’s phone. She pulls it from her pocket, glances down to see her assistant’s name on the screen, and sends the call to voicemail. Another few seconds of silence pass, and then her phone buzzes again. It’s her assistant again. Diana sends it to voicemail again.

When her phone buzzes for a third consecutive time, Steve says quietly, “Just answer it.”

Diana thumbs the screen and then lifts the phone to her ear. “Hello,” she says. She brushes past Steve and paces across the room. Sophie’s voice is panicked on the other end of the line, but Diana only half listens. “I’m on my way,” she says when Sophie stops to suck in a breath. “Just tell them to wait.”

When she hangs up the phone and turns back to Steve, she finds that he is studying her the same way she has seen him study maps and briefings with Bruce. “Sophie never calls you that many times in a row,” he says.

“The shipment from Spain is a mess,” she answers.

“The one that the investors are coming to see on Wednesday?”

The fact that he knows this makes her heart ache. “Yes.”

“So you have to go into work,” he says.

She nods. She smoothes her hands absently along her hips. “Constantine said you will have some soreness and bruising, so you need to take it easy. You should get back in bed.”  

“Will you be home tonight?”

“Yes. But I’m not sure when.”

“We need to talk, Diana.”

She nods. “I know.”

He smiles, a crooked and affectionate thing that makes her long to be close to him. “Come home for dinner. I’ll make spaghetti.”

She forces a smile.

* * *

Steve doesn’t know what, exactly, happened down in that cave after Diana told him to run.

He remembers her eyes going dark, and her body slamming into his. He remembers the bone-shattering collision with what he assumes was a stone wall of the cave. Everything went black after that. He’s sore, and he can’t press too hard on his bruised skin, but he feels fine. He’s certainly felt worse after other missions. But it’s not his body he’s worried about.

It’s Diana.

She has always considered his safety her responsibility. Even before they fell in love she was plucking him from the sea and deflecting bullets away from him, every inch the Amazon warrior her aunt had trained her to be. After Barry ran him to the future—after Veld, more specifically—the nature of their relationship changed. She didn’t protect him out of duty, or even friendly affection. She did it because she loved him.

He knows that he is her Achilles heel. After spending a century without him, she’s pretty much always worried about losing him again. She never worries out loud, or in front of other people. She has never tried to tell him what he can and cannot do, and she has never questioned his abilities or his decisions. But he knows her. He’s heard the tiredness in her voice over the phone when he’s on a mission without her, and he knows it’s because she doesn’t sleep when he’s gone. He’s felt her gaze on him whenever they’re on missions together, her focus split between the team’s objective and his safety.

He’s had close calls before. When she feels like she should have done more to protect him, she tilts toward guilt. Nobody is harder on themselves than Diana, and she is hardest on herself when it comes to protecting him. In the past, he has always been able to whisper it away, kiss it away, love it away. She has always smiled at him sooner rather than later.

This morning was different. He can’t stop thinking about the way she had flinched when he touched her, or the sound of her voice when she apologized. She could barely look him in the eye. She flat out refused to touch him. She asked him not to call her angel, a pet name she has always loved, and she did not kiss him goodbye before she left for work. He may not know exactly what happened down in that cave, but he can guess—and he’s guessing that she nearly killed him while under the influence of that spell.

He meant it when he told her she had nothing to be sorry about. What happened is not her fault. Even if he’s right, and he did almost die down in that cave, it’s still not her fault. He doesn’t blame her for not being able to fight the spell long enough to let Constantine knock the guardian out. Hell, she’s probably the only person on the planet capable of fighting magic spells at all. He is not angry with her. He is not afraid of her. He trusts her and loves her just as much as he did before they went down into that cave. Probably more.

He’s just not sure any of that will soothe her guilt.

He spends the morning drinking coffee, pacing the terrace despite the June heat, and trying not to text her. He figures after lunch, he’ll run out to the grocery store, and then maybe to her favorite ice cream shop for a pint, and then over to the florist for a bouquet. Maybe he’ll pop into the chocolate shop she likes too, and get her a box or two or three. It’s overkill, he knows, but he wants to make it perfectly clear to her that nothing has changed between them.

Then he gets a call from Waller. Apparently there’s been some kind of skirmish between Arthur, some Atlanteans, and a tribe that lives on a tiny island in the Indian Ocean. The director’s words, specifically, are that it’s “a shitshow of an international incident waiting to happen so you better get your ass down there and put Aquaman on a leash.” She wants Steve on the next flight out, and she’s already got an A.R.G.U.S. jet ready and waiting for him.

But he’s not going anywhere without seeing Diana first.

* * *

He shows up outside her office with a bouquet of flowers in his hands, a colorful but small assortment that he bought from a cart outside the museum. Sophie looks painfully frazzled behind her desk, her fingers tapping mercilessly on her keyboard.

When she looks up and sees Steve, she sighs and says, “Oh thank god.” Then she frowns and says, “That’s quite a shiner you’ve got there.”

Steve had forgotten about his black eye. “Soccer game this weekend got rough,” he lies, shrugging it off.

“Testosterone,” Sophie says with an eyeroll.

“Why does my arrival merit a ‘thank god’?” Steve asks, changing the subject.

“This whole morning has been a disaster,” she answers, pushing her hand through her red hair. “I can’t believe they sent the shipment out like that. It’s just unbelievable. They’re lucky Mademoiselle Prince is Mademoiselle Prince because anybody else would have just thrown up their hands and cancelled the whole damn event.”

“Diana’s not one to shy away from a challenge,” Steve says. “But I don’t think I’ll be much help.”

“Are you kidding?” Sophie says. “She’s been working nonstop, talking on the phone with the site director while managing the staff _and_ going through artifacts herself. She needs a break. She’ll be thrilled to see you.” She grins. “And your adorable little bouquet.”

Steve isn’t so sure about that, but he smiles anyway. “Is she in there?”

“No, but you can go in. I’ll go get her.”

“Thanks.”

Steve lets himself into Diana’s office, and then closes the door behind him. He takes the steps down toward her desk, and then stops. Usually he sits in her chair while he waits for her, but after this morning he feels like it’d be invading her space. He paces the edge of the room instead, eyeing the artifacts in their glass cases and then the contents of her desk.

The first time he was ever in this office, there were no picture frames on her desk. Now, there are three. The first is of her and Lois at Clark and Lois’ wedding this past spring. The second is a group shot of the entire League from their Christmas party last December. Both photographs bring up memories that make Steve smile, but it’s the third one that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

His own face smiles back at him, his eyes squinted with laughter and his arms outstretched to hold his phone for the selfie. Diana is behind him, her arms wrapped around his neck and her lips pressed to his cheek. They took it when they went to Ohio last October. Parts of that trip were hard for him—he was still recovering from a gunshot wound, and being back in his hometown reminded him that everyone he had previously known and loved was long dead and gone. Diana had been, unsurprisingly, an angel. She seemed to instinctively know when to leave him alone to brood and when to start a conversation, and by the end of the trip he felt exactly how he looks in the picture: happy and head-over-heels in love.

The office door opens and startles Steve out of his reverie. When he looks up, Diana is at the top of the steps. Her gaze flickers down to the bouquet in his hands, and when she smiles just a little his heart catches in his throat.

She descends the steps and stops at the bottom. She does not cross the room and kiss him like she normally would. “Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” he returns. He walks around her desk and holds out the bouquet. “There was a cart outside, so I figured…” he trails off and shrugs. He’s not sure why he felt the need to explain himself. He gives her flowers all the time.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, taking the bouquet. “They’re beautiful.”

_You’re beautiful,_ he would normally say. Hopelessly sentimental, sure, but she likes that. His warrior goddess is a romantic, and loving her has made him one too. But he bites his tongue this time.

“I know you’re busy,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets so that he’s not tempted to touch her. “I won’t stay long. There’s some kind of situation brewing with Arthur and the Atlanteans and some tiny island I’ve never heard of. Waller wants me on the first flight out.”

She looks up from the bouquet, her eyebrows knit. “When does your flight leave?”

“Whenever I get to the airfield,” he says with a shrug. “I just, uh…” He clears his throat. “I wanted to see you before I left.”

Once again, he finds himself comparing what she’d normally do—close the distance between them, press her body against his, whisper something like _I’m glad you came_ or _I will miss you_ or _Are you sure you have to go?_ —to what she’s actually doing—leaning away from him, her eyes downcast, her lips pressed together. The same tension that hovered between them this morning is back and even thicker than before, and he can barely breathe around it.

“Diana,” he says at the exact same instant she sighs and says, “Steve.”

They both stop. Their eyes meet. Steve tips his head at her. “Go ahead.”

“No, please,” she murmurs, gesturing toward him.

He doesn’t need a second invitation. “What happened in that cave wasn’t your fault.”

Her expression goes immediately blank. He finds himself thinking about the watertight compartment doors on the Titanic, and the way they were designed to crash closed to prevent flooding. He doesn’t want to think about why the sinking of an unsinkable ship is the best analogy he’s got for the current state of their relationship.

“Yes it was,” Diana murmurs.

“No it wasn’t,” he argues gently. “You were under a spell. You had no control over what you were doing.”

She brushes past him and toward her desk. She drops the bouquet into a glass vase that’s on the corner of the desk, and arranges the flowers absently. “I had enough control to fight it for a moment,” she answers quietly with her back to him. “I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve been better.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself. I bet if you asked Constantine he’d tell you that most people can’t even fight spells at all, and you—”

“Most people can’t crush your internal organs, either,” she interrupts, turning to face him.

He doesn’t have a response for that. He didn’t realize that’s what had happened. He knew it was bad—the bruises made that pretty clear—and the fact that she’d let Constantine heal him instead of flying him to the hospital suggested that the situation had been pretty dire. But he hadn’t realized until now just how bad it really was, and what it must have been like for her to snap out of the spell and realize what she’d done.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he says honestly.

“Sorry?” she repeats in disbelief. “I’m the reason you were like that. Don’t apologize to me.” She presses her fingers to her temples and shakes her head. “I don’t know how you can stand to be in the same room as me.”

“I’m in love with you,” he tells her. “The only room I want to be in is the one you’re in.”

“Steve,” she says on an exhale.

“I don’t blame you,” he insists. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not afraid of you. I know you would never hurt me—”

“But I _did_ hurt you. Badly.”

“Not on purpose.”

“It doesn’t matter. _I’m_ the one who gave you that black eye. _I’m_ the one who smashed you into that wall so hard that Constantine had to rebuild your organs.” Anguish shivers across her face. Her eyes go glassy, and when she speaks again her voice is so soft it’s barely audible. “I heard your ribs shatter, Steve. I broke your bones.”

He moves toward her, desperate to comfort her, but she won’t let him. She steps back and puts her hand out to stop him. He heeds her wordless request even though he doesn’t want to, clenching his jaw against the sharp pang of rejection. He presses his hands against his own rib cage.

“I’m fine,” he says resolutely. She shakes her head. “Diana, look at me.” She lifts her gaze to his. “I’m fine.”

“You’re fine because Constantine was there to fix you. Because Clark was there to hold me back. If they hadn’t been there, I would’ve killed you. You’d be dead, Steve.”

“But I’m _not._ I’m not dead. I’m right here—”

“They won’t always be around—”

“They don’t need to be,” he cuts her off. He’s trying not to get frustrated, but it’s difficult. He can’t remember the last time he had to work this hard to get through to her. “The guardian is locked up in D.C. She can’t hurt us again.”

“She’s not the only one in the world who can use magic,” Diana points out, folding her arms over her chest. “We’ve been hunting for magical artifacts, but we never stopped to consider the reality of what it meant. We’ve been—” She stops abruptly. “ _I’ve_ been reckless,” she corrects. “I should have known better. I’ve seen what magic can do. I knew it could affect me. And I ran in headfirst anyway.”

She doesn’t elaborate, but she doesn’t need to. He remembers that night last July when she’d woken up screaming, but instead of her usual nightmares it had been one he’d never heard before—memories of an enemy named Circe. He hadn’t considered her past with Circe when he’d been figuring out how to approach this conversation. To be honest, he’d forgotten all about it. Diana had never had a nightmare about her again, and so the sorceress just kind of slipped from his mind the same way other long-dead enemies had.

“Every artifact we need could have a guardian,” Diana continues. “Maybe even someone or something worse. We could end up right back here next week, or the week after that, and I can’t do that, Steve. I can’t. I can’t live with myself if I keep hurting you.”

“So what do you want to do? Just stop looking for them?”

He isn’t serious when he says it. He’s just trying to make a point that no situation is ever really an either/or. He’s expecting her to immediately say _No, of course not. Of course I want to keep looking._ But she doesn’t. She just stands there with her arms crossed, staring at a spot on the floor.

He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Diana if we don’t find those artifacts, I can’t be immortal,” he says. “We decided that’s what we wanted, remember? We decided we wanted to spend forever together.”

“I remember,” she says.

He stares at her, waiting, but she does not say anything else. “Is that not what you want anymore?” he asks, unable to stop the slight waver in his voice.

“Of course it’s what I want,” she says, finally looking at him. “But I’m not sure it’s what _you_ should want.”

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” he says. He doesn’t mean to curse. It just kind of slips out, and he feels badly (and a little ashamed) when her eyebrows lift in response. He presses on anyway. “Are you about to tell me I can do better than you? That I deserve better?”

“Steve,” she warns, but it doesn’t stop him.

“We’ve had this fight already, remember?” he says. “Except the roles were reversed. I tried to tell you that you deserved better, and you were pissed. You told me that I didn’t get to decide whether or not I was worthy of your love. You told me _you_ got to decide.”

She says nothing.

“I get to decide, Diana,” he insists. “It’s my choice. My life.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “And I nearly took it from you.”

“I don’t care. I choose you. I’ll always choose you.”

“Steve,” she says slowly, as though she’s trying very hard to be patient. “I need you to try to understand—”

“No,” he interrupts. “I won’t try to understand you punishing yourself. I won’t try to understand why things that aren’t okay for me are somehow okay for you. You’re being a hypocrite.”

“I just want you to be safe.”

“I’m safe with you.”

“No you’re _not,_ ” she says, her eyes blazing. “Have you looked in the mirror? Have you seen what I did? You’re not safe with me, Steve. I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you again.”

“You know what hurts?” he demands, finally losing his temper. “This.” He gestures between their bodies. “You refusing to touch me. You pushing me away, refusing to let us get through this together the way we said we would. You’re so worried about what you did before that you don’t even care that you’re hurting me now.”

She stares at him, taken aback. He can tell that she’s hovering just on the precipice of losing control of her emotions—it’s why she won’t let him touch her, and why she’s working so hard to keep her voice calm and even. Maybe it’s wrong of him, but he _wants_ to push her over the edge. He wants her to let him in and let everything else out, and so he keeps talking, his voice hard and insistent.

“You didn’t choose to be put under that spell, Diana. You didn’t choose to do anything while you were under it, either. But you’re choosing this. You’re pushing me away on purpose. And that hurts way worse than anything you did in that cave.”

Diana presses her lips together and looks away from him. For a moment they just stand there, his words hanging in the air, and then Diana reaches up and swipes quickly at her eyes.

_She’s crying,_ he realizes. He moves toward her immediately. This time she does not stop him. He lifts his hands to her face, and wipes away the tears that are starting to fall freely down her cheeks. “Please don’t push me away,” he pleads.

“Steve,” she whispers, and his heart breaks a little at the sound of it.

“Angel,” he whispers back to her. She exhales sharply, just the hint of a sob, and then puts her hand over her mouth. “Everything is okay,” he murmurs in Greek. “I’m okay. It wasn’t your fault, Diana. It wasn’t your fault. You’re still you, you’re still my angel, I love you. I love you.”

She finally, _finally_ reaches for him, gathering fistfuls of his shirt. “I’m sorry,” she whispers in Greek. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, pressing his mouth to her forehead before he pulls her body against his chest. “Don’t be sorry.”

Steve can count on one hand the number of times he has seen Diana cry. Each time has left him feeling powerless and emotionally wrecked, but this is by far the worst. She buries her face in his neck and clings to him. He holds her close, his hands rubbing gently over her back, and murmurs repeated assurances in her first language. _I love you. It wasn’t your fault. It’s okay. We’re okay._

Her breathing is starting to slow when he hears the office door open behind him. He feels Diana’s body go still against his. There is a painful silence, and then Sophie’s voice says timidly, “I’m so sorry to interrupt, Mademoiselle.”

Diana pulls back from him, and Steve reluctantly lets her go. She glances up at him, and he swipes quickly at a wet spot that’s still lingering on her cheek. Diana flexes her fingers against his chest, and then steps to her right so that she can see her assistant.

“What is it?”

Her voice is remarkably even. The only evidence that she’d been crying at all is her eyes, which are rimmed red, but even that is barely noticeable. Steve wonders if that’s some kind of goddess thing, or if it’s just Diana who can look immaculately put together after sobbing in someone’s arms.

Sophie gestures over her shoulder. “Monsieur Bonnet is here. He was hoping to catch an early glimpse of the exhibit as it was being set up.” Sophie twists her hands together. “I can send him away.”

“No,” Diana says. “Take him to the lobby. I’ll meet you there shortly.”

Sophie glances at Steve, and then back at Diana. “Mademoiselle,” she starts.

“I’ll meet you there,” Diana says firmly.

Sophie nods. “Yes mademoiselle.”

The redhead disappears without another word. Steve glances at Diana once the door is shut. She takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders, still staring after Sophie. He knows she has to go. He has to go too. But he’s not ready yet.

He reaches for her more tentatively than he usually does, his fingers weaving through hers. She does not pull away. She turns toward him, and he steps into her space and lifts his other hand to trace his fingertips over her cheek.

“I have to go,” she whispers.

He nods. “Me too.”

She squeezes his hand lightly. “Steve, I…” She sighs and doesn’t finish.

“We can talk about it when I get back,” he offers into the silence, still stroking her cheek. “Right?”

She nods.

He presses his forehead to hers and closes his eyes. “I love you.”

For a moment, he thinks she’s not going to say it back. But then she shuffles just a little closer to him, her nose bumping against his, and whispers, “I love you too.”

* * *

Diana does not get a moment alone until 7:30 that night.

She sends her staff home, including Sophie, who makes her promise that she’ll go home soon as well. But once Sophie’s out the door and Diana is sitting at her desk by herself, she realizes there’s no point in going home. The apartment is empty except for the cat, and although she has not slept in days, she knows she wouldn’t fall asleep if she crawled into bed. She rarely sleeps well—if at all—when Steve is gone, and after the events of this weekend she knows sleep will be even more elusive.

She pulls her phone out and finds that she has three text messages from Steve.

_Just landed,_ the first one says. _Miss you already._

_I might kill Arthur,_ the second one says. _Do you think if I did, Bruce would let me drive the Batmobile out of gratitude?_

The third one is a picture—an incredible shot of a beach with white sand and an endless expanse of ocean. _Reminds me of Themyscira,_ it says. _Wish you were here._

His absence aches in her chest. She longs to hear his voice, but she isn’t sure what she would say if she called him. She stares at the picture of him on her desk, her heart in her throat, and then she finally types out a text. It isn’t even a fraction of all the things she needs and wants to say, but it’s true.

_I love you._

* * *

Over the course of the next two days, Steve trades text messages with Diana.

He wants to call her. He is desperate to hear her voice, particularly given how frustrating Arthur is being, but what he wants even more is to give her what she needs, and he’s pretty sure she needs some space. He doesn’t like it. Hates it, in fact. But it doesn’t matter what he likes. He’s sure she didn’t like how broody he was after he got shot, or how grumpy he gets when dealing with Waller’s machinations. But Diana always lets him deal with things the way he needs to. The least he can do is return the favor, now that he’s certain she knows that he isn’t angry with her.

He tries to steer clear of talking about what happened with the guardian, because a text message conversation is not the best way to sort through their issues. Instead, he focuses on the mundane, and she seems eager to return the favor.

_Got a sunburn,_ he tells her on Tuesday afternoon.

_You didn’t pack sunscreen?_ she answers.

_Forgot. Arthur is unsympathetic. He keeps calling me tomato face._

_Tell him he smells like fish._

Steve snorts when he gets that response. _Pretty sure you’re the only one who could get away with saying that to him._

_So tell him I said it._

He does. _He doesn’t believe you said it,_ Steve types back to her. _Says you’re too nice. And now he’s even more insufferable._

She sends him a devil face emoji, and he laughs.

On Wednesday, he texts her and says _Good luck with the exhibit. You’ll be wonderful._ And then he sends a grin emoji and says, _Get it? WONDERful._

She sends him a GIF of a woman rolling her eyes, and then says _Thanks._

He doesn’t hear from her for the rest of the day, which works out relatively well for him since he spends it mediating a rather tense argument between some very heavily armed people. When he gets back to his hut, he collapses into his hammock and falls asleep almost immediately.

The next morning, he has a voicemail from Diana.

“Hi,” she says. “It’s me.” He closes his eyes and revels at the sound of her voice. “I know you’re probably working, and that Arthur is probably being insufferable. I also know he respects you, and that you’re probably the only person on the planet who can handle whatever’s going on.”

Typical Diana. Even with everything that’s going on between them, she’s encouraging and kind.

“I didn’t call for a specific reason,” she says. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Steve’s heart aches in his chest. A long silence follows, and he has to pull his phone away from his ear to make sure that the message isn’t over.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says, her voice soft. “About Monday. About everything. I just wish…” She sighs. “I wish I’d been better. I know you think it wasn’t my fault, but it _feels_ like my fault, Steve. And I hate that. You’re the last person I ever want to hurt.”

Another long pause, and then she says, “I wish you were here.”

_Me too,_ he thinks, burying his head in his hands.

“Be careful,” she says. “I love you.”

The moment the voicemail is done, Steve goes into the hut next door. Arthur is sound asleep in his hammock, his trident balanced against the wall next to him. Steve moves it out of his reach, and then he smacks Arthur on the back of the head. Hard.

“The fuck?” Arthur says, shooting up. He reaches for his trident, but it’s not there.

“Get up,” Steve commands.

Arthur scowls at him. “The hell is wrong with you? It’s too early—”

“Get. Up,” Steve says, glaring at him. “This bullshit has gone on long enough. You’re going to get your scaly ass out there and find a compromise, and you’re going to do it by lunchtime so that I can get on a plane and get home to Diana.”

Arthur grins. “Got an itch you need scratched?”

Steve doesn’t really think about it. He just pulls his gun from his hip, points it at Arthur, and says, “Just an itchy trigger finger.”

He wouldn’t shoot Arthur, and Arthur knows it. He’s just trying to make a point, and Arthur seems to get it.

“Fine,” he grumbles, hopping out of his hammock. “No need to get all homicidal about it.”

* * *

On Thursday evening after she gets home from work, Diana stands on her terrace and watches a thunderstorm roll in.

Steve had called around noon to say he’d be home tonight, probably late. She’s glad—despite the unsteadiness in their relationship, she’s missed him terribly. It’s the little things she always misses most: the way he hums when he shaves, the way he insists on laying out his clothes for the next day before he goes to bed, the way he strokes her hair when they watch TV. He’s part of her routines now, and when he’s gone she feels his absence intensely.

They have a lot to talk about. She has no idea how it’s going to go. She doesn’t even know what she wants to say. She knows she’s in love with him. She knows she wants to spend forever with him. She also knows that she can’t bear to hurt him again, and that she still hasn’t forgiven herself for doing it the first time.

She’s trying to formulate some semblance of an analysis of how she feels when she spots a familiar flash of red and blue on the distant horizon. A few moments later, Clark drops down next to her.

“Let me guess,” Diana says dryly, trying not to smile. “You were in the neighborhood.”

He grins and rests his elbows on the terrace railing next to her. “No,” he admits. “I came just to see you.”

She doesn’t take her eyes off the black clouds in the distance. “I’ve been meaning to call. I’m sorry for being short with you on Saturday.”

“No apology needed.”

She sighs and looks down at her hands. “I wish people would quit saying that.”

They both know there’s only one other person who’s been saying that. “Okay,” Clark says affably. “Apology accepted then.”

Diana smiles. A surge of affection propels her forward—she turns toward him, wraps her arms around one of his, and leans her head against his muscled shoulder. He presses a chaste kiss on her hairline.

They watch the clouds roll in together without saying a word. Eventually, a question starts to nag at her. “Have you ever hurt anyone you loved?” she asks softly.

“Yes.”

She waits. She wants to know who and when and how, but she does not want to force him to share.

“My powers manifested when I was a kid,” he starts quietly. “I had to learn to control them. It took a lot of concentration. Usually I did pretty well, but not always.”

Diana thinks of the first time she crashed her arms together back on Themyscira, and the wave of energy that had hurled Antiope backward. She can still remember how confused she was, and how ashamed she felt that she’d hurt her aunt. She can’t imagine what it must have been like for Clark, who had to deal with a laundry list of superpowers as a child.

Clark clears his throat. “I’ve always loved football. You kind of have to when you grow up in Kansas. One Christmas, my parents got me a helmet signed by a bunch of pro football players that I loved. I still have no idea how they pulled it off. At the time, I didn’t care. I was so excited that I jumped up and lunged at my mom to give her a hug.”

There is a brief silence. Diana shifts closer to him and squeezes his arm encouragingly.

“Broke her ribs,” he says shortly. “Spent the rest of Christmas in the E.R.”

There is grief in his voice. Diana leans back to look at his face. “You were just a child, Clark.”

He turns to look at her. “But I wasn’t under a spell. No one made me do it.” He glances back out at the storm. “I did it.”

Diana watches him. She understands what a privilege this is—not only for him to tell her something he’s clearly still ashamed of, but also for him to let her see all his feelings written plainly across his face. She imagines Lois sees the contemplative side of him quite often, but he usually keeps it hidden from the rest of the League.

“I kept the helmet in a box under my bed,” he tells her. “And I didn’t touch my mom for two weeks.”

Diana imagines him as a boy, gangly and earnest, refusing to touch his mother with a solemn shame that darkened his bright eyes.

“How did you move past it?” she asks him.

The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “My dad,” he says. “He came in my room one night and gave me a speech. He was good at those.”

Diana smiles at the affection in his voice.

“He told me that everyone makes mistakes, and that with the powers I had, my mistakes were going to be bigger than other people’s. What mattered wasn’t the mistake itself, but the way I handled it after. And the way I was handling it wasn’t protecting my mom, it was just hurting her.”

It is so eerily similar to what Steve had told her before he left that the breath catches in her throat. Thunder cracks overhead, but neither of them move.

“What did you do?” she asks.

He looks at her and smiles. “I went downstairs and hugged my mom.”

Diana lowers her eyes and stares at her arms wrapped around his. It’s easy to touch him. He’s the man of steel. But Steve is not, and she doesn’t know if she trusts herself not to hurt him again.

“Do you love him?” Clark asks quietly.

“Yes,” she murmurs.

“Does he love you?”

“Yes.”

“Then let it go.”

Diana lifts her eyes to his.

“Forgiving yourself takes courage,” Clark tells her, smiling. “Lucky for Steve, you’re the bravest person I know.” He tilts his head. “Well, maybe the second bravest. Sometimes I think Lois has a death wish.”

Diana laughs. “Your wife is quite intrepid.”

“One of her finer qualities,” Clark acknowledges, laughter threading through his voice. Another loud boom of thunder rattles through the sky, followed by a jagged strike of lightning. Clark straightens. “I should get back to Metropolis.”

“Thank you for coming,” she tells him sincerely.

“Anytime.” He smiles at her, and then lifts his hand to cup her cheek. “Be brave, Di.”

She nods. He steps back, and then shoots off into the sky.

Diana rests her elbows against the railing again and stares out at the city. There’s a slight chill in the air now as the temperature drops with the incoming storm, and she can feel the electrical currents humming up in the clouds. She’s always loved thunderstorms. She likes to open the terrace doors wide when they arrive so that the entire apartment fills with the scent of rain and the sound of thunder and lightning. She likes the way her curtains blow in the breeze, and the way the darkness makes everything seem quieter than usual.

Steve likes them too. He told her once that he used to watch them roll in over the Ohio cornfields the same way she watches them blow into Paris. Sometimes they lay in bed together and watch the rain fall on the terrace. Sometimes he reaches for her, or she reaches for him, and they make love with lightning illuminating the bed and thunder echoing their whispers.

Ten minutes or so after Clark leaves, the first drop of rain finally lands on Diana’s wrist. She looks up at the sky. The clouds are dark and full. The forecast says it’s going to rain all night. She briefly considers not going inside—she could just stand out here in the middle of the storm, let her clothes soak through and stick to her skin, and experience the chill in the wind firsthand. She can’t catch a cold like humans do, and getting struck by lightning isn’t really something she needs to worry about. But she has some things to do before Steve gets home. Maybe another time.

She’s crossing the threshold into the apartment when Steve appears in the bedroom doorway.

Diana goes still in surprise. A bolt of lightning cracks through the sky behind her and illuminates his figure brilliantly—his broad shoulders, the strands of hair falling across his forehead, his blue eyes looking at her like she’s the answer to every question he’s ever asked. Outside, the clouds finally open up and a torrential downpour begins.

“Hi,” Steve says over the sound of the rain, sliding his hands into his pockets almost shyly.

“Hi,” she answers.

He trails his gaze over her body. It’s shallow, probably, but she’s suddenly glad she hasn’t changed out of her work clothes yet. He likes her in dresses, and she’s wearing one of his favorites.

“I wasn’t expecting you until later,” she says.

“We made good time and they dropped me off first,” he replies. He shifts his gaze past her to look at the rain pouring onto the terrace. “Were you watching the storm?”

“Yes.”

He looks back at her. “It’s supposed to rain all night.”

She nods. “I heard.”

Silence descends between them, broken only by the sound of thunder and rain. Everything about their reunion so far is formal and cold, and the space between them seems to stretch out for miles instead of just a few yards. She hates it, and she knows it’s her fault.

She also knows how to fix it.

“Come here,” she orders gently.

He crosses the room slowly, his eyes fixed on hers. A combination of nervousness and desire makes her stomach flip. A clap of thunder booms, and another bright flash of lightning follows. The rain is loud, smacking against the concrete of the terrace relentlessly, but she can barely hear it over the roar of her pulse in her ears.

He stops before her. The coldness has evaporated with their proximity. Electricity seems to hum between them, a nearly audible spark in the air. She feels like there’s a magnet in her chest, pulling her toward him, so she slants closer. His gaze darts down to her mouth, and then back up to her eyes.

She lifts her hand and brushes the tips of her fingers over his fading black eye. He closes his eyes and exhales slowly, tilting his head into her hand. Her heart gallops in her chest. She strokes his cheek one more time, and then lowers her hand.

He opens his eyes, disappointment flashing across his face. It’s followed immediately by surprise when she reaches for the hem of his t-shirt. She lifts it up, and he raises his arms to help her pull it over his head. She drops it on the floor next to him, and then steels herself before looking down at his body.

There are still bruises painted over his abs and chest, though they are not as dark and gruesome as they were before. She frowns anyway, her throat tightening. Steve smoothes his fingers over the worried creases of her forehead, and she looks up at him. He smiles crookedly at her.    

_Be brave,_ she thinks. She lowers her gaze back down to his chest, and then lifts her hand and presses it lightly against his heart. She glances up, half expecting to see him wince, but he continues to smile at her. She strokes her hand downward, down to his abs, and he flexes beneath her touch. She lifts her other hand, and traces that one along his skin too.

He stands completely still as she reacquaints herself with his body. When she finally looks up at him again, his jaw is clenched and his eyes are closed. She pulls her hands back quickly, and his eyes snap open. “Did I…?” she whispers.

“No,” he murmurs, catching her hands. He presses them against his body again and holds them there. His palms are warm on the backs of her fingers. “Please don’t stop.”

Desire drills down her spine, hot and sharp. He takes a tiny step closer to her, lifting one hand to curl around her neck. His thumb traces along her jaw. The words linger stubbornly on the tip of her tongue, and she takes a deep breath and forces them out.

“I’m scared I’ll hurt you.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not.” He smiles again. “I’ve got enough faith in you for the both of us.”

Her heart flutters in her chest. She lifts her mouth slowly, and then brushes her lips gently over his. She feels the rightness of it all the way down to her bones, even despite the anxiety still clawing at her chest, and when his tongue slides lightly along her bottom lip she opens her mouth to him.

He kisses her deeply, but there’s no force behind it. He is in no hurry, and it’s clear he has no intention of taking the lead. She understands why. She’d refused to let him touch her one too many times. In trying to protect him she’d rejected him, and now he’s hesitant in a way that he’s never been before. It makes her angry with herself all over again. She wants them to find their way back to where they were before. She wants him to feel free to touch her however and whenever he wants.

She draws his body closer to hers. “Take me to bed,” she whispers against his lips.

“Are you sure?”

She feels a sudden stab of nervousness in her heart. Maybe she pushed him too far. Maybe she hurt him too much. She leans back from his mouth. “Don’t you want to?”

A clap of thunder echoes through the bedroom. His expression is serious. “Of course I do,” he says, his hand sliding along the small of her back. “I always want you.”

Lightning splits the sky outside, and a gust of wind blows the curtains across the wide open doors of the terrace. Steve shivers just a little in the breeze, and Diana pulls him closer.

“Then take me,” she whispers.

This time when he kisses her, there is no hesitation. Desire erupts like wildfire within her, achingly hot, but she doesn’t want to rush it. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry either. They undress each other slowly, pausing to caress and kiss every inch of skin they reveal.

When their bodies are bare and flushed and thoroughly explored she draws him back toward the bed, her fingers brushing gently over his skin as he settles on top of her. He looks down at her, his blue eyes bright in the dimness, and she sees the question lurking there. She nods at him, her hand stroking over his cheek, and he pushes his hips forward slowly. She closes her eyes and tips her head back against the pillows and tries to remember how to breathe.

“Angel,” he murmurs into the pulsepoint beneath her jaw, his tongue following the rush of his breath over her skin.

She whispers his name, a plea and a contented sigh all at once, and wraps her legs around him to urge him on. He moves unhurriedly and gently, his mouth pressing against her throat and her chest and her lips in languid, open-mouthed kisses. He speaks to her in Greek, his voice a soft murmur over the unrelenting rain outside.

It isn’t about a release. She just wants to let him in, physically and emotionally. But Steve is nothing if not a gentleman. She can’t remember the last time he took her to bed without making sure she finished, and she should have known that tonight would be no exception. She gasps when it hits, her hands twisting in the sheets. He follows her not long after, his body shuddering atop hers, her name on his lips.

“I love you,” she whispers after she catches her breath. “I love you.”

* * *

Steve can’t stop touching Diana.

They are facing each other and sharing a pillow, their legs tangled beneath the sheets. He is stroking his hand along the outside of her thigh, trying to memorize the way her skin feels beneath his fingertips. She is watching him, her index finger tracing idly along his collarbone. He doesn’t try to to hide the look of adoration that he’s sure is on his face. The terrace doors are still open, and beyond them the thunderstorm rages on.

“I’m sorry,” Diana whispers.

Steve looks up at her, his hand going still on her thigh. It’s the first thing she’s said since she whispered _I love you_ while he was still coming down from the high. He opens his mouth to tell her that he doesn’t want an apology, but she lifts her hand and brushes her finger over his lips to quiet him.

“You might not need to hear it,” she murmurs, “but I need to say it.”

He nods. She lowers her hand, and he goes back to stroking her skin. “What else do you need?” he asks after a long silence.

She brushes his hair back from his forehead. “Your forgiveness.”

Every fiber of his being wants to tell her that there is nothing to forgive her for, but he knows she will protest. He doesn’t want to argue with her. He just wants to give her what she needs so they can get back to the business of spending their lives together.

“I forgive you,” he tells her. Her eyes are glassy and full. She isn’t touching him anymore. “But you have to forgive yourself, too,” he whispers.

He’s a little surprised when the corner of her mouth turns upward in what looks suspiciously like a smile. “So I’ve heard.”

He frowns at her.

“Clark stopped by,” she explains, her fingertips stroking over his frown lines. “Just before you got home. You barely missed him.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes. He just wanted to check on me.”

She chews her bottom lip, and he knows that she’s trying to decide if she wants to tell him something. He waits patiently, and she rewards him.

“I had him fly you back here from the cave,” she murmurs. “He’s the one who changed you out of your suit. I didn’t trust myself not to hurt you.”

“Is that why you wouldn’t touch me when I woke up?” he asks.

She nods. Her hand caresses one of the darker bruises on his midsection. “I didn’t want to hurt you worse than I already had. But I also knew that if I started, I wouldn’t want to stop.”

He grins at her. “You know I like it when you don’t stop, right?”

She smiles a little. “Yes. But it wasn’t about that. It was about protecting you. That, and I didn’t...” she trails off.

“Didn’t what?” he presses.

Her smile is wry. “At the risk of starting another argument, I didn’t think I deserved to.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not about deserve. It’s about—”

“What you believe,” she finishes with him. “I know. And I believe that you have the right to be safe. To be with someone who won’t hurt you.”

“Well I believe in us,” he counters.

She brushes her hand through his hair. “That’s very sweet.”

“I’m not trying to be sweet. I’m trying to get you to understand that your desire to protect me doesn’t get to overrule my desire to be with you. We’re in this together. Our desires have to have equal weight.”

“You can’t blame me for wanting you to be safe.”

“No, but what’s the point of being safe if I don’t get to be with you?”

Her expression softens. “Steve,” she says on an exhale. He thinks she’s about to tell him he’s sweet again, but that’s not what he’s going for. He’s just trying to tell her the truth.

“Diana,” he says, curling his hand around her hip. “Do you love me?”

“You know I do,” she says. “More than anything.”

“You want to be with me?”

“Yes.”

“Then be with me. Respect my choice. I’m not some lovesick kid who doesn’t know what he signed up for. I know who you are. I know what you’re capable of. I also know that you’re the kindest, gentlest person I’ve ever met. You’re the last person who would ever hurt me.”

“But I—”

“No,” he cuts her off. “ _You_ didn’t hurt me. The guardian did. You know that. Just because you feel guilty doesn’t mean you’re the one responsible.”

She chews on her bottom lip. “What if we meet someone else like her? What if it happens again?”

“What if I get shot again?” he counters. “What if I’m in another plane explosion? What if I step off the curb tomorrow and get hit by a bus and you have to peel me off the street?”

“Steve,” she chastises, horrified.

“You can ask what ifs until you drown in them, Diana,” he tells her gently. “It won’t change a damn thing. What’s going to happen is going to happen. I’d rather deal with it _with_ you than be safe without you.”

She exhales slowly. He watches her. He can practically see the wheels turning in her mind. “I’m sorry if I tried to make a decision for you,” she murmurs at last. “I never want to do that.”

“You never have,” he assures her, stroking his hand over her thigh again. “You were just scared this time, that’s all.”

She traces a scar on his chest idly. “I wish I’d been better at fighting the spell.”

“Maybe you could get better.”

She frowns at him. “How?”

He shrugs. “Maybe fighting magic is a skill just like fighting with your sword. You can’t be good at something you’ve never trained for.”

“How would I train for that?”

“With Constantine.”

Diana considers his words. Steve hadn’t been sure if he should bring it up—he didn’t know how she’d react to the idea, considering how the last spell she was under turned out. But when he sees her expression harden with resolve, he realizes he shouldn’t have worried. Of _course_ she wants to learn how to conquer magic. She wants to learn how to conquer everything. She’s Diana.

“I would want Clark there,” she tells him.

“Sure,” he agrees immediately. “We can invite the whole League if you want. Whatever makes you most comfortable.” He hesitates, but he can’t _not_ say it. He can’t be selfish. “If you want us to stop looking for artifacts until you figure it out, we can.”

She studies him. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” he answers immediately. She smiles. He rubs his thumb across the just of her hip bone. “I think we can try to be more careful. But I don’t want to stop. I want to find them as soon as possible. I want to be immortal.”

“I want that too,” she whispers, leaning forward to kiss him.

When she pulls back, he smiles. “I can call Constantine tomorrow. Maybe we can start this weekend.”

“Assuming he’ll help us.”

“Oh, he’ll definitely help us. He’ll see it as the perfect opportunity to woo you away from me.”

She rolls her eyes. “I can’t be wooed away.”

“Of course you can’t.” He slides toward her, rolling her onto her back beneath him. “Nobody gets you off better than I do.”

It’s an incredibly arrogant thing to say, considering how many lovers she’s had over the course of a century, but she doesn’t look surprised or annoyed. She lifts her hands and cards them through his hair. “Very humble of you,” she says, smiling.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t. I’m the goddess of truth.”

“With a lasso of truth.”

“You’ve always liked the lasso,” she observes in a low murmur.

She lifts her arms above her head and crosses them together at the wrist the same way she has crossed his wrists with her lasso in this same bed so many times before. She doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t have to. She just looks at him, and he knows immediately what she’s thinking.

“Fucking hell,” he says, ducking his head into the curve of her neck. He sucks lightly on her skin and trails a hand down the length of her body.

“Something you want to ask me, Steve?” Diana purrs in his ear, arching up into his hand.

“Devil woman,” he says in response, moving his mouth down to her chest. He remembers something she said earlier all of a sudden, and leans back from her body abruptly.

“Actually, I do have a question. About something you said earlier.”

Her eyebrows gather in confusion. “Which part?”

“The part where you let Clark see me naked.”

She laughs, and he swears it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. “Did you go commando under your suit?” she asks.

“No. But seeing me in my Wonder Woman boxers is pretty much equivalent to seeing me naked.”

She laughs again. “You did _not_ have Wonder Woman boxers on.”

“I most certainly did,” he argues. “I’ve got like eight pairs. I wore them the whole time I was away with Arthur. Nothing says I love my girl like wearing underwear with her name on it.”

“Where on earth would you even get something like that?”

“Amazon.”

The word hangs in the air for a split second, and then Diana puts her hands over her face and groans.

Steve cackles. “Barry’s gonna love that one.”

“I am sleeping with a man-child,” Diana sighs. “Hera help me.” She peers at him from between her hands. “You don’t really have them, do you?”

“No,” he says with a grin. “But now I’m definitely going to get some.”

“Of course you are,” she laughs, stroking her hands through his hair. The corners of her eyes are crinkled in amusement. “I love you.”

He smiles down at her. He’s so happy he thinks he might explode with it. “Still?”

She smiles back at him. “Always.”


	3. Christmas

A week before Christmas, Diana gets a call from Barry.

“Hello Barry,” she says, answering after the second ring.

“Hi!” he says brightly on the other end of the line. “Listen, I just saw an action figure of you at the store. So badass. I mean, it doesn’t look _exactly_ like you, but the armor looks pretty good. You’ve got a little sword and everything.”

“Oh,” Diana says, but she doesn’t get a chance to say anything else because he keeps talking.

“I was _so_ pumped when I saw it. Like, I see Clark and Bruce everywhere. Sometimes me and Arthur and Vic. But I rarely see you and that is just such bullshit, you know? You’re way cooler than all of us. I mean you’re a goddess, _hello._ And you know what? I think it’s because you’re a woman. I mean, you guys get paid less, you get catcalled, _and_ there’s a glass ceiling on action figures of you? What is _that_ about? We live in the twenty-first century for crying out loud. How is society still this lame?”

“Mhmm,” Diana says.

“I think we should start a petition,” he says. “I mean, obviously you can’t parade around in your armor and tell people there should be more action figures of you. You’d come off super arrogant.” He snorts. “ _Super._ Heh. Anyway. You can’t, but I can. I’m gonna put my suit on when I get home and stand out on the corner and every time someone asks me to go catch the guy who stole their purse or get their cat down from a tree I’ll be like yeah, sure, but only if you sign my petition about equal rights for female superheroes.”

“Do you rescue a lot of cats from trees?” Diana asks when he pauses to take a breath.

“What? Oh. No. I mean, one time. Then another time there was this parrot that got loose and let me tell you, that did not end well for me. The Flash can’t fly, folks. Also, I bought it for you.”

“The parrot?” Diana asks, confused.

“No, your action figure. I bought one for Steve too. Is that weird? Like, is it weird that he might play with a doll of you? Oh god, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

Diana laughs. “That was very kind of you, Barry. Thank you.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, and she can hear him beaming with pride. “But that’s not why I called.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. I was, uh, I was wondering if you—I mean, you don’t have to say yes, okay? I know it’s short notice, and you and Steve probably have plans, but when I bought the action figures I thought I’d wrap them for Christmas and then I realized I probably wasn’t going to see you before Christmas and that made me kinda sad, you know, so I—”

“Barry,” Diana cuts him off gently.

“Yeah?”

“Would you like to spend Christmas with me and Steve?”

She’s surprised that he doesn’t immediately answer. There isn’t a long pause on the other end of the line, but it certainly seems long considering how fast Barry does everything else.

“Really?” he says quietly, hopefully.

_By the gods, I love this boy,_ Diana thinks. If he were standing in front of her, she’d wrap her arms around him and squeeze. “Isn’t that what you were calling to ask?” she says.

“Sort of. I didn’t think you’d want…” He clears his throat. “I mean, last Christmas we were all at Bruce’s, but this year we’re all doing our own thing and I kind of...I don’t know, I kind of miss everyone.”

They were all together just last month for Thanksgiving at Clark’s family farm in Kansas, and they have seen each other since then for League business (most notably for a rather nasty battle with a giant, telepathic gorilla), but Diana does not point that out.

“I was just going to see if we could have a party,” Barry continues. “You know, like ugly sweaters and a gift exchange?”

“That sounds lovely,” Diana tells him. “Steve and I would love to come.”

“But um,” Barry says. She hears some shuffling in the background, and muffled voices. She wonders where he is. “If you really meant it, and you weren’t, you know, like...I mean, I don’t need a pity invite or anything.”

“I don’t pity you, Barry,” she says firmly. “I enjoy spending time with you because we are friends and I love you.”

There is another very, very long pause on the other end of the line. Diana wonders belatedly if she’s ever actually told Barry she loves him. She can’t recall. It’s certainly true, whether she’s said so or not.

“I love you too,” he finally says very softly. He sounds a little stunned.

Diana smiles. “Good. Now, about Christmas. You are more than welcome to spend it in Paris with us. We do not have plans, other than a rather serious bet over who can make the best gingerbread house.”

Barry snorts. “You, obviously.”

Diana smiles wider. “But I think I have a better idea. Let me make some calls.”

* * *

Bruce is pleasantly surprised when Diana calls him a week before Christmas.

“Diana,” he greets, balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear. He leans down over the table and peers at his utility belt through a magnifying glass. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I have a favor to ask,” she says on the other end of the line. “I do not think you will like it, but I am going to ask anyway because I think you will agree it is the right thing to do.”

Bruce straightens. “This sounds ominous.”

She laughs. “It’s not.”

“Did you kill someone and you need me to bury the body?”

“I can bury my own bodies, thank you.”

“Another donation to the Louvre?”

“I did not ask you to make the first one.”

“Did Steve blow up another gun?”

“That was not his fault, and you know it,” she says, laughing again.

Bruce can’t help but smile. Her laugh is infectious. “What can I do for you, princess?”

“You can host a Christmas party.”

The smile drops straight off Bruce’s lips.

“Don’t make that face,” Diana says.

“I’m not making a face.”

“You _are_ making a face. I can hear it.”

Bruce sighs. “You know I don’t like Christmas.”

“Yes you do,” she argues. “You told me so once.”

Bruce smirks. “You were draped across my bed wearing nothing but that stupid light up sweater Barry got you. What the hell else was I supposed to say?”

She laughs, and he can’t help but chuckle too. He likes this about their relationship—he likes that there is no lingering awkwardness, and that neither of them feels like they have to pretend they didn’t once share a bed. Despite what his previous relationships have taught him, Diana has shown him that it is actually possible to be friends with a former lover. He might—if he was the kind of man who put stock in such things, that is—even say she is his _best_ friend. Steve is up pretty high on the list too, though if Bruce won’t admit it to Diana he certainly won’t be admitting it to her boyfriend.

“Regardless of the circumstances,” Diana says, “you said it. And I think it is true. You like the idea of Christmas. You just don’t like the commercialism and sentimentality.”

“You never really struck me as the holly jolly type,” he says, fiddling with a nearby wrench. “What’s with the sudden interest?”

“Barry called.”

Bruce likes to think he knows Diana pretty well. She is, by far, the kindest person he’s ever known. She loves people—genuinely loves them for who they are and in spite of their flaws. Steve, obviously, is the person she loves most. But if someone were to ask him who she loves the most _other_ than Steve, Bruce knows exactly what his answer would be: Barry Allen.

“I can’t bear the thought of him sitting in that apartment alone on Christmas, Bruce,” she tells him softly. “Do you remember last year? Do you remember how happy he was?”

“Yes,” Bruce admits. “I also remember that he made Christmas cookies and used salt instead of sugar. You ate twelve of them.”

“They weren’t that bad.”

“They were disgusting, Diana.”

“He tried, at least. His second batch was much better.”

“You mean the batch that you made, and he just stirred.”

“He was a very good stirrer. Also, he frosted them.”

“He ate more frosting than he used.”

“Yes, well, it’s not his fault he has a high metabolism. Besides, I seem to remember that someone else is rather fond of frosted cookies as well.”

Bruce sighs. He’d lost this battle the moment he answered the phone. There’s no point in arguing. “When?” he asks.

“Christmas is on a Tuesday. You could invite people up on Saturday. Make a long weekend of it.”

“And by people you mean…?”

“The League. And significant others.”

“Mera won’t come.”

“Invite her anyway. Arthur will appreciate the gesture.”

“Arthur doesn’t appreciate gestures.”

“That’s because yours usually involve your middle finger.”

Bruce snorts. “So the League and Lois.”

“Yes.”

“For four days. In my house. Celebrating Christmas.”

“Yes.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I won’t wear one of those ridiculous light up sweaters no matter how much he begs.”

“That’s fine,” she says. He can hear her smiling.

“Do I have to buy presents?”

“Just one. For the gift exchange. I’ll give the details to Alfred. You won’t need to do anything, Bruce. Alfred and I will handle it all. You have my permission to brood in your cave until we get there, and even after we get there so long as you participate when I ask.”

He sighs heavily. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

He sighs again, just for effect. “Fine. I guess I’m hosting a Christmas party.”

* * *

For the record, Steve is not in the habit of rifling through Diana’s underwear drawer. He’s done it, like, once.

Okay, twice.

Fine, three times, but that’s _it._

Also, in his defense, she’d given him permission each of those times. She did not give him permission this time, but she totally would have if she’d known what he wanted.

See, they were packing for Bruce’s Christmas weekend, and Steve started thinking about the first time he’d ever been to Bruce’s. A lot of other first times happened that week—the first time he had sex with Diana in the twenty-first century, the first time he saw her in lingerie, the first time she—

Well, there’s really no need to go into detail. The point is that they’ve had some really, _really_ great nights at Bruce’s, and they’re about to spend Christmas there, and Steve has always liked Christmas. And he really likes Diana. And what he would really, really, _really_ like is to see Diana in her red lace lingerie on Christmas Eve.

So, he opens her underwear drawer. All he wants is the red lace. Honestly. But as he closes his fingers around the garment, he sees the box nestled in the corner of the drawer.

It’s like his hand has a mind of its own—he drops the red lace, and picks up the box, and pulls it out of the drawer. It’s black leather, and small enough to fit in his palm. It’s not too heavy, but not too light either.

_This is my Christmas gift,_ he realizes.

That, of course, is when Diana walks in the room.

“Steve?”

He freezes, his eyes wide. He can’t put the box back. She will know. She _always_ knows. So, he turns around with it still in his hand and gives her his most apologetic smile.

“I can explain.”

Her gaze darts down to the box, and then she puts her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes at him. “Steve Trevor.”

“I was _not_ snooping—”

“You were in my underwear drawer,” she says. “If you weren’t snooping, what were you doing?”

“Red lace,” he declares, grabbing the garment and waving it at her. “I just wanted you to pack it for Christmas Eve.”

She crosses the room and snatches the lace out of his hand. “You are like a lecherous frat boy.”

“You _like_ it when I’m lecherous.”

The corner of her mouth turns upward. “Anything else?” she asks, motioning toward the still open drawer. “Maybe the black lace? The purple satin? The leather bustier?”

“Don’t joke about the leather bustier,” he says reverently, closing his eyes briefly. “It’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Did you open it?”

Steve gives her a wicked look. “Yes, I did. But only after I got you off. Twice.”

“I meant the box, not the bustier,” she says, rolling her eyes.

He grins. “Oh. Well in that case, no. I did not.”

She gestures at the box. “Might as well, now that you’ve got it in your hand.”

He frowns. He can’t tell if she’s angry with him or not. He crowds into her space, lifting the hand that isn’t holding the box to brush across her cheek. “I really didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, Steve,” she says, her voice soft. She smiles at him. “Just open it.”

He studies her closely, but she just keeps smiling at him. So, he reaches down and opens the box.

His father’s watch is inside. He goes still for a moment, unsure why she’s giving him something that he already had, and then his eyes widen when he realizes that it’s ticking.

“You fixed it,” he breathes. He pulls it out of the box, spellbound.

“You said that if it worked, you would wear it,” she reminds him quietly. “I wanted to give it to you for your birthday, but I couldn’t find a watchmaker who knew how to fix it before then.”

He looks up at her. “You’ve been trying to fix this since July?”

“March,” she amends, tilting her head. “I started looking when you told me that you’d wear it if you could.”

“Diana,” he whispers.

“The watchmaker I finally found is Belgian.” She smiles, a wide and gorgeous thing that steals the breath right out of his lungs. “I liked that,” she says softly. “Since we fell in love in Belgium.”

He doesn’t know what to say, and he’s a little embarrassed to find that his eyes are suddenly a little wetter than normal, so he puts his hands on either side of her face and kisses her.

“You like it?” she murmurs when he pulls back.

“I love it,” he says. “It’s perfect.”

“He said it’s very well made,” she tells him, glancing down at the watch in his hand. He follows her gaze, and rubs his thumb across the glass face. “But it is old, and the straps are a little worn. You probably can’t wear it every day.” He glances up at her. She smiles. “Maybe on special occasions.”

“And now,” he says, pushing the sleeve of his sweater back to wrap it around his wrist. It fits just like he remembers, the weight heavy but still familiar, and he can’t stop grinning. “I can’t believe you did this,” he says.

She brushes her hand across his face. “Merry Christmas, Steve.”

He kisses her again. And then again. And then he sweeps her into his arms, and carries her over to their bed, and dumps her onto the mattress a little more unceremoniously than usual.

She doesn’t seem to mind. “We have to finish packing,” she tells him with an arched eyebrow.

“We will,” he says, bending down to pull her hips toward the edge of the bed. Once she’s where he wants her, he drops to his knees. “But first, I would like to express my gratitude.” He grins as he smoothes his hands up her legs. “If that’s okay with the lady, that is.”

She smiles. “The lady approves.”

* * *

Bruce is standing in the comfortable silence of his kitchen, drinking coffee and trying to decide which gadget he wants to tinker with, when Diana breezes into the room with a literal mountain of bags in her hands.

She sets them onto the island counter, sighs contentedly, and then turns toward him with a radiant smile. “Good morning, Bruce.”

He blinks at her. “I said six o’clock tonight.”

“For everyone else,” she says, pulling the leather gloves off her hands.

He looks her over quickly—force of habit, since he often needs to determine if people are armed—and finds himself wanting to roll his eyes. Only Diana can wear leather pants, very high stilettos, and a thick, red wool coat while carrying a massive amount of very full-looking bags and still not have a single hair out of place.

“Alfred and I have things to do,” she tells him. She crosses the room and brushes a kiss across his cheek. “No need to scowl at me like that. You’re not expected to help.”

He sips his coffee. “I wasn’t scowling.”

“You’re always scowling,” Steve says, appearing in the doorway. He’s carrying considerably less than his girlfriend was, though his arms are still full. Diana moves toward him immediately and pulls a few bags from his hands.

“Suits you though,” Steve adds, grinning at Bruce.

“Steve,” Bruce says, lifting his mug in greeting. “Your better half has turned into a holiday cheer monster.”

“Barry loves Christmas,” Steve answers, setting his bags on the counter. “And Diana loves Barry. Therefore, Diana loves Christmas. And you know she’s incapable of doing anything halfway.”

“I’m standing right here,” Diana says dryly.

“And looking very nice while doing it,” Steve says, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

Diana smiles at him. Bruce barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. Unless they’re on a mission for the League, Diana and Steve are consistently and openly affectionate. Never (or at least rarely) inappropriate—just affectionate. The rest of the League teases Steve about it endlessly, though they don’t bother to tease Diana. There’s no point. It’s close to impossible to embarrass her.

“What all do you have planned?” Bruce asks Diana. He doesn’t try to hide the dread in his voice.

“Nothing for you,” Diana answers with a grin. “Mostly just things I think Barry will like. Whoever wants to join is more than welcome to.”

“Except for gingerbread houses,” Steve says, holding up his index finger. “That’s just me and you, babe.”

“Babe?” Diana says, rounding on him. “That’s new.”

“Thought I’d try it out,” Steve says with a shrug. “What do you think? Yes? No?”

“I’d rather not listen to the two of you debate pet names,” Bruce says before Diana can answer. “I’ll be in the Batcave.”

“Miss Prince,” Alfred says from the doorway before Bruce can leave. “Glad to see you’ve arrived safely.”

Diana turns toward the older man with a brilliant smile. “Hello Alfred. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you, my dear,” Alfred says, opening his arms to welcome her hug.

This time Bruce does roll his eyes. Alfred doesn’t hug people, nor does he call them _dear._ Those are habits that are reserved solely for Diana.

“I think your butler likes Diana better than he likes you,” Steve says.

Bruce snorts. “Pretty sure everyone likes Diana better than they like me.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, watching his girlfriend with clear affection. “Same.”

* * *

Halfway through dinner on Saturday night, Barry sits back from his plate and looks around the table.

Everyone he loves—with the exception of his parents—is here. Vic and Arthur are laughing loudly to his right. Farther down the table, Alfred, Bruce, and Clark are debating something, their expressions serious but their eyes bright with interest. On Barry’s left, Lois and Diana are having an animated conversation with Steve, who has his arm slung around the back of his girlfriend’s chair.

The entire house is decorated beautifully with lights and candles and garland. There is an exquisite Christmas tree in the living room with a beautiful silver star on the top. When Barry first arrived, he was stunned by the sight of it.

“Did Bruce get bit by a rabid reindeer?” he’d asked Steve, who was hanging the last of the ornaments on the tree.

“No,” Steve said with a grin. “He just got Wonder Woman-ed.”

Barry blinked at him. “I didn’t realize Diana liked Christmas this much,” he said. “Not that she was a Grinch last year or anything. She just...well, she didn’t do all this.” Barry grinned. “Must be cause you’re back. More reasons to celebrate.”

“Nah,” Steve said, shaking his head. “She did this for you.”

Now, as Barry watches Diana laugh with Lois, he realizes Steve was right. When Diana called to say that Bruce wanted to host a holiday gathering for the entire League, Barry had been too excited to stop and think it through. It seems obvious to him now. There’s no way Bruce offered to host. He’s hosting because Diana asked him to. Diana called all the members of the League and asked them to come despite the short notice. Diana told them to bring the brightly wrapped gifts that are under the tree and waiting for the gift exchange. Diana enlisted Steve and Alfred to decorate the house, and stocked the fridge with ingredients for Christmas cookies, and filled a stocking with his name on it full of gift cards from his favorite restaurants and left it on his pillow with a tag saying it was from Santa Claus.

Diana did _all_ of this.

And she did it for him.

This time of year is hard for him. It makes him think of his mother and his father and all the things he wishes he could have but can’t. From the moment he walked through the door this afternoon, though, he’s felt nothing but warm, and loved, and at peace. Life isn’t perfect—it never has been—but this is pretty damn close, and he has Diana to thank for that.

As he looks around the table, Barry realizes that at some point, Diana has done something like this for all of them. Something generous and thoughtful. Something kind and encouraging. She’s the heart and soul of their little family, and it’s about time she knew that.

Tis the season, after all.

“Hey,” he says, leaning to his right and smacking Vic’s metallic chest. “I got an idea.”

* * *

“This is really not fair,” Vic says to Steve from behind a tree the next morning.

“I know, right?” Steve says. His face is flushed from the cold, and he is packing a snowball as if his life depends on it. “She’s not even trying to hit anyone else.”

“I meant Arthur,” Vic says with a smirk. “Dude can control water. Snow is made of water. Therefore, dude can control snow.”

“Ugh,” Steve groans in agreement. They both peer around the tree. “Look at him,” Steve says. “Sitting there on top of that fort like he owns the whole damn yard.”

“Well he kind of does, seeing as it’s covered in snow. He built that fort in like three minutes flat.”

“Tell me again why Clark won’t heat vision it right out from under his ass?”

“That’s cheating,” Vic says, mimicking Clark’s voice. “Winners never cheat and cheaters never prosper.”

“I heard that,” Clark says, touching down next to them. “Any progress on the ammunition?’

Vic and Steve glower at him.

“Oh come on guys,” Clark says, his hands on his hips. “What’s the point of a snowball fight if I evaporate the other team’s ammunition?”

“Victory,” Steve says. “The point is victory.”

“I’m sure we can win without—”

The rest of Clark’s statement is cut off by a snowball slamming right into his face. On the far side of the yard, Arthur roars in laughter. Clark wipes the snow from his face.

“You pissed yet?” Steve says. “Cause I’m—”

The rest of Steve’s statement is cut off by an avalanche of snow crashing down on his head. Steve shakes the snow off and looks up, sputtering in shock. Vic looks up too, and sees Diana standing on a branch in the tree. She wiggles her fingers in a wave and gives them all a stunning smile.

“I got this,” Vic says, plucking the snowball out of Steve’s hand. But just as he is starting to bend his knees to leap toward Diana a gust of frigid air races past them followed by a literal wave of snow.

Vic looks down at his body and finds that he is knee deep in snow. When he looks up, Barry is standing there with a shovel in his hand and a ridiculous grin stretched across his lips.

“Gotta be quicker than that,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

Vic sighs. “This is really not fair.”

* * *

“Even if I wanted to go my schedule wouldn’t allow it!” the Grinch roars from a very large projector screen in perfect unison with Barry.

The speedster is sitting cross-legged on the floor directly in front of the screen, with a bag of Cheetos and a two-liter of Mountain Dew on either side of him. Diana can’t help but smile at him. They just finished dinner a little over an hour ago, and he’s already hungry again. Typical.

“I swear to god, kid, if you quote this whole movie I will take you outside and drown you in that lake,” Arthur growls from around a box of Mike and Ikes.

“But it’s so quotable!” Barry whines.

“Maybe try whispering,” Lois offers helpfully.

“Barry can’t whisper,” Vic says from his sprawled out position on the floor. “He is literally incapable.”

“I am not,” Barry argues.

“Whisper,” Vic orders.

“I am whispering and I’m very good at it,” Barry says. His voice is quieter but he is definitely not whispering.

“Wow,” Lois says. “That wasn’t even close.”

Clark snorts.

Barry pouts. “All of you suck.”

“If you’re going to talk over the whole movie I’m going to go back down to the Batcave,” Bruce announces.

“Well shit, everyone shut up then,” Arthur says. “I want to see how long he lasts.”

Bruce glowers at Arthur, who grins around a handful of candy. The rest of the room falls silent.

Diana glances at Steve out of the corner of her eye. He’s never seen _How the Grinch Stole Christmas,_ and Barry had insisted it was a tragedy that must immediately be corrected. Steve has laughed a few times already, and Diana doesn’t want to distract him.

But she’s going to anyway.

“Hey,” she whispers. She is already curled into his side on the couch, his arm around her shoulders, but she leans even closer to him and scratches her fingers lightly over his chest.

“Hm?” he says, but he does not look away from the screen.

Diana waits, but he does not look at her. She grins. “I knew it.”

He finally looks at her. “Knew what?”

“You’re pouting.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” She brushes a finger over his lips. “Your bottom lip is sticking out.”

He nips at her finger. “That’s what bottom lips do. I’m not pouting.”

Diana hums in disagreement and looks back at the screen. She pops a few peanut butter M&Ms into her mouth and waits. Sure enough, Steve leans closer to her after a few seconds.

“I’m just saying Bruce is probably not the best judge,” he murmurs quietly so as not to interrupt the movie. “What does he even know about gingerbread houses?”

“You’re the one who picked him,” Diana whispers back to him, smirking.

Steve frowns. “Yeah, well, I didn’t have much of a choice. He’s the only one who didn’t see us building them.”

“So?”

“So he’s the only one who didn’t know which one was yours and which one was mine.”

“Why does that even matter?”

“Because they all would have picked yours just because it was yours.”

“Would you like to bring in an objective, expert third party?” Diana teases. “Perhaps we could have Barry run out to Gotham’s finest bakeries and assemble the chefs here for an extended judging session.”

“You’re making fun of me,” he pouts.

“Yes,” she confirms. “But only because you’re being ridiculous. If Bruce had picked _your_ gingerbread house you would have thought the judging was fair.”

“Because it _would_ have been fair. Mine was better.”

Diana shrugs. “That’s not what the trophy says.”

Steve huffs at her. “I can’t believe Barry made you a trophy. I think he’d hack his own arm off and eat it if you asked him to.”

“That’s disgusting, Steve.”

“But true. And for the record, my gumdrop fence was both whimsical _and_ functional.”

“It was very nice,” Diana concedes. She grins. “Just not as nice as my candy cane bridge. Or my candy cane trophy.”

Steve sighs heavily and scowls at the movie.

Diana wraps her arms around him and leans in close, her mouth by his ear. “Will it make you feel better if I wear the red lace tonight?” she whispers.

His body tenses against hers. She watches him swallow, his throat bobbing. He glances around the room, but no one is looking at them. “But then what would you wear on Christmas Eve?” he murmurs.

“The leather bustier.”

He looks over at her, his eyes wide. “You packed that?”

She bites her lip around a smile and nods.

“Sweet baby Jesus in the manger,” he says, casting his eyes heavenward. “This is the best Christmas ever.” Diana laughs quietly. He glances down at her lips. “Red lace would definitely make me feel better.”

“Well, whatever I can do to soothe your wounded ego,” she says with a suggestive smile.

“Can we uh…” He strokes his hand along the back of her neck. “Can we call it a night early then? Like, now?”

“No. Barry loves this movie. He put it on for you.”

“Diana,” he whines.

“As soon as the movie is done, I’m all yours,” she promises, kissing him briefly.

“Hey lovebirds,” Arthur says, tossing a Mike and Ike in their direction. It hits Steve on the shoulder and then bounces behind the couch. “Be quiet and watch the movie or go get a room. I don’t want Batgrinch to have an excuse to disappear back down to his dungeon.”

Steve looks hopefully at Diana.

“No,” she says with a laugh, turning back to the screen.

Steve starts pouting again.

* * *

“I think I ate too much,” Arthur whines, his body sprawled out in a dining chair and his hands covering his stomach. He feels like he’s going to explode. He hasn’t felt this full in...well, ever.

“I tried to warn you,” Diana says.

Arthur cracks an eye open to scowl at her. She doesn’t notice. She’s too busy shaking some red sprinkles over a freshly frosted cookie. The moment she’s done, Barry snatches the cookie and shoves the whole thing in his mouth.

“Barry,” she chastises. There isn’t even a trace of annoyance in her voice. “Haven’t you had enough?”

“How are you _still_ eating?” Arthur moans.

Barry grins at him. “I guess this means I am the undisputed champion of the First Annual Justice League Christmas Cookie Eating Contest.” He cups his hands over his mouth and mimics the sound of a roaring crowd. “Thank you, thank you,” he says, waving at the cupboards as though they are adoring fans.

“You cheated,” Arthur says halfheartedly.

“Can you say it was a League contest if you and Arthur were the only ones participating?” Clark asks as he finishes baking another batch of cookies with his heat vision.

“I opened the contest to all the members of the League,” Barry says, turning his nose up. “It’s not my fault that you all are cowards.”

“I think the more accurate explanation would be that they’re not dumb enough to think they can out-eat someone with your metabolism,” Lois notes dryly. “No offense, Arthur.”

“Too full to be offended,” Arthur groans.

“Something smells good,” Steve announces from the doorway. He frowns at Arthur. “What’s wrong with you? You look awful.”

“Real charmer you got here, Di,” Arthur says.

“Arthur accepted Barry’s challenge to a cookie eating contest,” Diana tells her boyfriend with a smirk. She’s shaking sprinkles over more cookies, and Barry is looking at them hungrily.

“Dude,” Steve says to Arthur. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

“The kid needed to be taught a lesson about trash talk,” Arthur defends himself weakly.

Barry grins. “Oh you definitely taught me a lesson,” he says. “And that is that I can trash talk as much as I want because none of you can beat me. I am the champion of all things Christmas.”

“Diana won the gingerbread competition,” Steve points out. He puts a hand on Diana’s waist and leans over her shoulder, and she lifts a cookie up to his mouth without turning around. He takes a bite, and Arthur groans.

“Can you two feed each other somewhere else? Some of us are going to explode if we see anymore food.”

“Maybe you should get out of the kitchen,” Clark suggests kindly.

“Hey, I didn’t get to participate in the gingerbread competition,” Barry says to Steve. “That doesn’t count.”

“She would’ve beat you,” Steve says. “Diana, those are _good._ ”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling at him over her shoulder.

“No way!” Barry protests. “I am the King of Christmas.”

“Yeah, but she’s Diana,” Steve says, taking the rest of the cookie from Diana’s hand. “Seriously, what did you put in these? This is what happiness tastes like.”

“Weren’t you just whining yesterday that the gingerbread judging was unfair?” Lois says, arching an eyebrow at Steve.

Steve turns a little red. “I changed my mind. Diana deserved to win.”

“Wonder what made you do that,” Lois says pointedly.

Diana smirks. Steve shoves the whole cookie into his mouth and shrugs.

“Can we make these chocolate covered Oreo cookie balls?!” Barry shouts, gesturing wildly at an open cookbook on the counter.

“Sure,” Diana says. She smiles at Arthur. “You want to help, Arthur?”

Arthur groans and drags himself to his feet to leave. “I hate all of you.”

* * *

“It’s time for the gift exchange, isn’t it?”

Diana smiles at Bruce’s back, which is hunched over the front of the Batmobile. She’s long past the days when she’s surprised that she can’t sneak up on him. “Yes.”

“Don’t people usually open presents on Christmas Day, not Christmas Eve?”

“Clark and Lois have to leave early tomorrow morning to get to Smallville,” she answers. “Christmas Eve will have to do.”

Bruce grunts and keeps working. Diana waits. After a very long two minutes, she crosses her arms and sighs. “I will wrap you in my lasso and drag you up there if I must.”

He sighs heavily and turns to face her with an exasperated look. There is grease smeared across his cheek. “Do I have to?”

“You sound like a petulant child,” she tells him as she crosses the room. She pulls a rag from the hood of the Batmobile. “And you look like one too.”

She lifts her hands, holding his jaw with one and then scrubbing at the grease on his cheek with the rag in the other. She smiles at him, and he scowls at her. She knows she’s the only person in the world allowed to fuss over him like this, and she also knows that he would never let her do it if there were other people in the room. She wouldn’t have even tried if they weren’t alone.

“There,” she says, lowering the rag. “Still grumpy, but less greasy.”

He snatches the rag from her hand. “Is it white elephant?”

“Yes. So you will need to remember how to smile at some point during our journey upstairs. It may make the muscles of your face rather sore since they’re not used to the movement, but I’m certain the Batman’s pain tolerance is up to the task.”

The corners of his mouth twitch upward. “You know, Alfred and I celebrated Christmas just fine before you and your brood came along.”

“ _My_ brood?” Diana says. “I’m fairly certain recruiting them was _your_ idea.”

“Maybe so, but we both know they’re yours now. Walking into a room with you is like walking into church with the pope.”

Diana laughs. “Now you just sound jealous.”

“Definitely not jealous,” he says, wiping his hands on the rag. “Let me wash my hands and I’ll be up.”

Diana arches an eyebrow at him. “Don’t make me come back down here, Bruce Wayne.”

He smirks as he turns away from her. “Wouldn’t dream of it, your highness.”

Diana smiles after him, and then takes the elevator back up to the house. The moment she steps off, Barry appears in a rush of air.

“Di,” he says, sounding out of breath.

“Barry,” she greets with a smile. He does not smile back. He looks a little pale. “Are you alright?” she asks, frowning in concern.

“Oh, yeah. For sure. Just uh...do you have a minute?”

“Of course.” He is bouncing on the balls of his feet, and that’s when she realizes that his hands are behind his back. “What do you have behind your back?” she asks, leaning to the side to peer around his body.

“No peeking!” he squeaks, turning his body to block her view.

Diana lifts her eyebrows at him.

“I got you a present,” he explains.

“You already gave me a present, Barry. You do not need to give me another one.”

“Psh,” he says. “That action figure was just a normal present. This is a _Christmas_ present.”

He holds out a rectangle about the size of an encyclopedia. It is wrapped messily in red and white striped wrapping paper, and there is a crumpled silver bow on the top.

“I’m not great at wrapping,” Barry says apologetically. “I do it too fast and the paper rips.”

“Nonsense. You did wonderfully,” Diana says, taking the gift. “Should I open it now?”

“Yeah.”

Diana starts to rip the paper, and then Barry bellows, “Wait!”

She smiles up at him. “I think I’m getting mixed signals,” she says dryly.

He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. I just…” He clears his throat. His hands start to flutter at his sides, vibrating so fast that they look like blurs. “I wanted to say thank you.”

“For what?”

“Everything. The tree. The cookies. The gift exchange. Asking everybody to come. Getting Bruce to host when he hates Christmas.”

“He doesn’t hate Christmas,” Diana disagrees with a laugh. “He just has a hard time with sentimentality. He likes when we’re around, even if he doesn’t show it.”

“But did he _want_ to host?”

Diana smiles. “I don’t know if I’d say he _wanted_ to.”

“Exactly,” Barry says. “He didn’t, but you convinced him. You pulled all of this together in, like, four days, Di. And you put that stocking on my pillow.”

“Oh, no, that was Santa,” she says in mock seriousness.

Barry smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He rubs the back of his neck and stares at the floor. He looks older all of a sudden, worn and weary. He’s always so joyful that it startles her, twisting her heart in her chest.  

“Barry, what’s wrong?” she asks, moving closer to him.

“Do you know why I love Christmas so much?” he asks quietly.

“No. Why?”

“Because my mom did.”

There is a hint of grief in his voice, and Diana feels a wave of empathy. Barry continues to stare down at the ground, and scuffs his foot absently against the hardwood floor. His hands have stopped vibrating.

“She did it big every year,” he says. “After she died, I thought that celebrating it without her would be wrong. Like, it was disrespectful to be happy when she was…” He swallows hard. “You know, in the ground.”

It takes every ounce of Diana’s self control not to wrap him in her arms.

“My dad told me that she would’ve wanted me to celebrate,” he continues. “To do it big like she did. So I tried. I always got a tree, and I watched all the movies, and I listened to all the music. But it was uh...it was hard.” He scuffs his foot against the floor again. “It’s a holiday for families,” he finishes quietly. “And I didn’t have one.”

“You have one now,” Diana tells him softly.

He lifts his gaze to hers. “Yeah,” he agrees. “And you’re the best part.”

Diana’s heart unfurls in her chest. By the gods, she loves this boy.

He smiles at her, and this time it’s genuine. “My mom would’ve really loved you, Di. I know I do.”

“Oh Barry,” she murmurs, stepping forward to hug him. He meets her halfway eagerly, his arms wrapping tightly around her body.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Diana holds him closer, strokes her hand over the back of his head, and thinks that somewhere in the afterlife, Barry’s mother must be extremely proud of the man her son has become. “You’re welcome,” she whispers back.

When they pull away from each other, Barry’s goofy smile has returned. “You can open it now,” he says, gesturing at the present.

Diana smiles, and rips the paper off gently. Underneath is a hardback, leatherbound book. In the center of the front cover is a rectangular space in which a picture of the League has been placed.

“This is why you were so insistent on getting a picture Saturday night,” Diana says, looking up at him.

“Yeah,” he says, grinning.

Diana opens the front cover, and finds that the first page is filled with a handwritten letter. Barry’s hand covers the page, and Diana looks up. “Maybe don’t read mine right now,” he says, the tops of his cheeks flushed. “That’d be awkward.” He turns the page for her. “There, you can read Vic’s. He’s not here to be embarrassed.”

Diana looks down at the page, and finds that it’s filled with small, neat handwriting. _Diana,_ it reads. _When we first met, you told me that the League needed my help. You also told me that I needed you guys, too. I didn’t think it was true. But now, when I think about the past year and everything that’s happened, I can see that you were right. I did need the League. Way more than I knew. But I needed you, especially. You were the first person who looked past the metal and saw who I was underneath—_

Diana looks up at Barry, her throat tight. “What is this?”

He smiles. “Arthur’s is next,” he says instead of answering her question. He turns the page for her again.

Diana looks back down. This letter is shorter than Vic’s, and written in a spectacularly messy scrawl. _You’re a badass, Di. But I think you already knew that._

She does not read the rest of Arthur’s note. Her heart is thumping hard in her chest. She turns the page, finds a letter from Clark, and reads the first few lines. _When I was a kid, I used to wonder what it would be like to have a sibling. Someone to share life’s struggles with. Someone who knew and understood what I’d been through. Thanks to you, I don’t have to wonder anymore._

She turns the page, and finds a long letter from Lois. _I write for a living so this should be easy, but for some reason I’m struggling to find the words to explain just how much you mean to me._

And then another letter from Alfred. _What I admire most is the way that the world has not hardened the kindness of your heart._

Even Bruce has written one in his sweeping cursive. _The world’s a better place with you in it. I’m better, too._

The final page is only a few lines, written in a slanted print that she knows very, very well. She has seen it on grocery lists, and on cards delivered with bouquets of flowers, and in hastily scrawled notes left on the kitchen counter.

_You saved my life. You’re the love of my life. I love you still and always._

It isn’t signed, but she doesn’t need to see his name to know it’s from Steve.

Diana looks up at Barry with tears sitting in her eyes. He smiles at her. “I thought you should know what you mean to all of us,” he says.

She doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything at all. She just wraps him in another hug and squeezes tight.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

She’s still holding him when the elevator doors slide open behind her.

“I’m not doing this if it means I have to hug people,” Bruce’s voice says irritably.

Diana laughs.

* * *

“This has to be the most ridiculous gift exchange that ever happened,” Clark murmurs in Lois’ ear. He rubs a hand across his middle. “I think my muscles are sore from laughing.”

“Mine too,” she says, wiping at her eyes. She puts her hand on his knee and smiles at him over her shoulder. “I’m glad we came.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, smiling. He leans in to kiss her, but is interrupted by a shout from the other side of the room.

“Oh come _on!_ ” Vic whines.

“This is not my fault,” Arthur declares. “Bruce took my chocolate covered bacon so I _had_ to steal yours.”

Bruce smirks from his chair by the Christmas tree, a red box of chocolate covered bacon balanced on his knee.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Vic complains. “My Nerf gun is not the same as chocolate covered bacon. If you want chocolate, take Barry’s one pound Reese’s Cups.”

“No,” Barry says, holding the package close to his chest. “Mine.”

“I don’t like peanut butter,” Arthur says. He holds up the box with the giant Nerf gun. “But I _will_ like shooting you with styrofoam darts.”

“That gift has been stolen three times,” Alfred says. “It now belongs to Mr. Curry and cannot be stolen.”

“That’s right bitches,” Arthur says, holding the box up in triumph.

Vic rolls his eyes. Alfred gestures to the rest of the room. “It’s your turn, Mr. Stone. You may open the last gift under the tree, or you may steal something from someone else.”

“You’re more than welcome to have mine,” Steve offers, holding up a six-foot long body pillow with a life-size image of The Flash printed on it.

“Hey!” Barry says.

“Oh come on, Bar,” Steve says. “Did you really think someone would want a body pillow with your body on it?”

“I have a nice body,” Barry pouts.

“You are very handsome,” Diana says to Barry kindly. Steve gives her an amused look, but she ignores him. “I think what Steve means is that a life-size pillow of you is just a little—”

“Narcissistic?” Vic interrupts.

“Creepy,” Arthur says.

“Weird as hell,” Bruce supplies.

Beside Clark, Lois puts her hand over her mouth and tries not to laugh.

“It’s just rather large,” Diana finishes, casting an unamused look at the three men. “I’m not sure where we would keep it.”

“In your bed,” Barry answers as if it’s obvious. “That’s where you keep pillows.”

Diana and Steve share a look.

“Barry,” Lois says, apparently taking pity on her friends. She leans forward and puts her elbows on her knees. “Just to clarify—you don’t really think Diana and Steve are going to put a life-size pillow version of your body in their bed, do you?”

Barry looks at Lois like she just grew a second head. “Well, yeah. Why not?”

“Do you know what they do in that bed, kid?” Arthur says.

“Arthur,” Steve hisses.

“What?” Arthur says. “I think he should know if his pillow likeness is going to have to watch you _—_ ”

“Okay,” Diana cuts him off loudly. Steve is sputtering and wide-eyed next to her. “That’s enough of that.” She puts her hand on Steve’s knee and pats him reassuringly, and then smiles at the rest of the room. “Let’s focus on Vic now, shall we? Vic, what are you thinking?”

“Well I don’t really need soap,” Vic answers, nodding at the white elephant made of soap sitting next to Diana on the couch. “Sorry, Di.”

“Don’t be,” she says with a smile. “I think it’s rather clever. I’d like to keep it.”

Bruce smirks.

“That’s Bruce’s gift,” Clark whispers to Lois when he notices.

“Yep,” she whispers back. “And Diana knows it.”

Clark glances at Diana, who is curled into Steve’s side with her toes tucked beneath his thigh and her body leaning against his shoulder. He’s been absently playing with her ponytail all night. They are both clearly relaxed and happy, despite their recently acquired six-foot Flash pillow.

“You think?” Clark asks.

“Definitely. That’s why she picked it. Couldn’t risk one of the three stooges saying something rude that would have sent him back down to the Batcave in a funk.”

“Hm,” Clark says. “That does sound like her.”

“And I don’t need slippers,” Vic says, nodding at the giant, shaggy green slippers on Clark’s feet.

Clark grins and lifts his foot. “Good. Cause I’m a big fan. And my feet are warm.”

“Your feet are always warm,” Lois laughs.

“Warm- _er_ ,” Clark corrects.

“Don’t need LEGOs either,” Vic says.

“ _Star Wars_ LEGOs,” Clark clarifies.

“Well, I think we all know who’s going to build the LEGO Millennium Falcon Lois got,” Steve says.

Diana grins at her boyfriend. “You’re just jealous.”

“A little,” Steve admits wistfully.

“Definitely don’t want that,” Vic says, gesturing at the piggy bank shaped like the poop emoji that Alfred is holding.

“But it’s so delightfully classy,” Alfred says dryly.

“You’re welcome,” Arthur announces.

“Guess I’ll have to go with the last present,” Vic says. He crosses the room, and plucks the last box from under the tree. He shakes it, and frowns. “Can’t tell what it is.”

“That’s because you’re supposed to open it,” Barry says, still holding his Reese’s Cups tightly.

“X-ray it,” Vic says to Clark, holding out the present.

“No way,” Clark says. “That would be cheating.”

“Boy scout,” Vic mutters.

“Just open it, Vic,” Diana says kindly. “It can’t be that bad.”

“That’s what I said,” Alfred murmurs. Diana smiles at him.

“Alright, here goes,” Vic says. He shreds the paper, and then grins. He holds the gift up. “Justice League video game.”

“Whaaaat?” Barry says, sitting straight up in his chair. “That’s badass!”

“Jealous,” Clark says.

“Not as cool as my Nerf gun,” Arthur mutters, but he looks a little less enthused than he did five minutes ago.

“So is that it?” Bruce asks. “There are no more presents.”

“Actually, there is one more step,” Alfred says. “Traditionally, the person who drew the number one is given the chance to steal a gift once all the gifts have been opened.”

“So what happens if your gift gets stolen?” Barry asks, frowning as he hugs his huge Reese’s package tighter. “Do you steal one too?”

“No,” Alfred answers. “You just trade with the person who pulled the number one. Game over.”

“So who’s the lucky bastard?” Arthur asks.

Steve lifts his hand into the air. “That would be me.”

“Oh he’s definitely going for that Millennium Falcon,” Vic says, gesturing at the box in Lois’ lap.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Lois says, arching an eyebrow.

“You wouldn’t?” Clark asks, looking down at his fiancee. “Why not?”

“Because Diana loves Reese’s,” Lois answers with a smirk.

Everyone in the room turns to look at Diana. She smiles. “Oh, I would never ask him to do that.”

“You wouldn’t have to,” Steve replies, getting to his feet. He crosses the room, and stops in front of Barry.

The speedster stares up at the spy with a horrified look. “You wouldn’t.”

Steve holds his hand out. “Hand it over, bud.”

“Nooo,” Barry wails, clutching the package to his chest. “I’m starving!”

“You ate four dozen cookies this afternoon,” Lois says. “And then dinner. And dessert. And a snack.”

“I have a high metabolism,” Barry whines.

“Steve,” Diana calls. “You don’t need to do this.”

Steve gives Barry a meaningful look that Diana can’t see, and Barry sighs. “No, it’s fine,” he says glumly. He holds the chocolate out. “At least she’s going to someone who will cherish her for the beauty she is.”

“Anybody else think his relationship with food is a little disturbing?” Arthur asks.

Steve takes the package, and then pats Barry’s shoulder. “Cheer up, man. At least now you get a lifesize pillow version of yourself.”

The entire room erupts in laughter, and Barry grins. “Like I said—better that I go to someone who will truly appreciate my beauty.”

“That’s also disturbing,” Arthur mutters.

Steve makes his way back toward Diana. “My lady,” he says when he gets there, presenting the chocolate with a flourish and a bow.

Diana smiles at him, and then tugs on the front of his sweater to bring his mouth down to hers. The room fills with a series of whistles and catcalls. When Diana lets Steve go, he is a little flushed but clearly pleased with himself.

“Merry Christmas to me,” he murmurs.

Diana grins at him, and then turns her attention to Barry. “Would you be willing to help me eat it?” she asks.

Barry’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Of course.”

“Okay!” Barry shouts, leaping to his feet. “We can eat it during the movie!”

“What movie?” Bruce asks.

“I always watch _It’s A Wonderful Life_ on Christmas Eve,” Barry answers. He looks suddenly shy. “I just figured if nobody is tired yet we could all watch it together. But you don’t have to,” Barry adds quickly. “It was just an idea.”

“I’m in,” Steve says immediately. “I’ve never seen it.”

Diana beams at Steve, and then turns her brilliant smile on Barry. “I would love to join you, Barry.”

“We’re in,” Clark says.

Lois leans against him and nods. “Definitely.”

“Sounds like a party,” Vic says. “Let’s do it.”

“Eggnog and I’m in,” Arthur says. “What do you say, Batgrinch?”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

* * *

When the credits start to roll, Steve presses his lips against Diana’s hairline. “You awake?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Apparently we’re the only ones, though.”

Steve looks down and sees that Barry is fast asleep, his head in Diana’s lap. Diana is stroking her hand through his hair gently. Everyone else—except Vic and Bruce, who ducked down to the Batcave about an hour ago—has followed Barry’s lead. Clark’s arms are wrapped firmly around his fiancee’s body, and they are both sleeping soundly. Arthur is sprawled out on the loveseat and snoring loudly. Alfred is asleep in an armchair, his head tipped back toward the ceiling.

“Lazy bums,” Steve jokes.

“We had a busy weekend,” Diana says. She glances up at him. “Did you like the movie?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling down at her. “Little surprised Barry likes it so much, though. Doesn’t seem like his style.”

Diana looks down at Barry with so much affection that Steve barely resists the urge to pull her close and kiss her soundly. “I think it was his mother’s favorite,” she says softly, still stroking the speedster’s hair.

“You going to carry him to bed?” Steve asks.

“No. He likes to sleep by the Christmas tree.” She looks up at him again. “I’d rather not though.”

“Good, me neither,” he says. “Think we can sneak out of here without waking anyone?”

She smiles. “Challenge accepted.”

It takes some maneuvering, but Diana is strong and Steve’s got a giant body pillow ready to slip beneath Barry’s head so that he won’t even realize Diana is gone. They somehow manage to sneak out of the living room without making a sound. Diana slips her arm through Steve’s once they’re in the hall, and they walk slowly through the darkened house toward their bedroom.

Steve closes the door behind them and locks it, just in case Barry decides he wants to burst in tomorrow morning and announce that it’s Christmas. When he turns around, Diana is smiling at him. He smiles too, and pulls her close. She drapes her arms around his shoulders.

“Alone at last,” she whispers.

“You never know,” he says. “Barry could knock on the door any second with another movie he wants us to watch.”

“No more movies,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Just me and you.”

“Yes, please,” he says as he leans forward to kiss her. The rest of the world fades away, and all that’s left is her and the way she feels in his arms, lithe and soft and the very best kind of familiar.

She whispers something to him in Greek. He doesn’t catch all of it, but he thinks he catches the words _all night,_ which sends a thrill through him and reminds him that she still has no idea what he got her for Christmas.

He leans back, his hands curling around her waist. “Can I give you your Christmas present now?”

She smiles. “You don’t want to wait for tomorrow morning?”

“I think you’d like to have it for tonight.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “Did you get me something you want me to wear?”

“No. That would be a gift for me, not you.”

“Not necessarily,” she says, sliding her hands along his ribs. She looks up at him from under her long eyelashes, her dark eyes glimmering with a suggestion that he likes very, very much. “You’re always very generous when I wear things for you.”

He tugs on the collar of his sweater. “Yeah, I’m going to need you to not be you for, like, five minutes okay?”

She laughs. “Okay.”

He guides her toward their bed, and down onto the edge of the mattress. She crosses her legs and folds her hands in her lap, and he steps back and stands before her. She looks up at him expectantly. He feels very, very nervous all of a sudden.

“Okay,” he says, rubbing his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans. “Alright.”

She glances at his hands, and then tilts her head at him. “Are you nervous?”

“No. Maybe. Yes.”

“You shouldn’t be,” she tells him with a smile. “I’m sure I’ll love whatever it is.” She looks in the direction of their suitcases. “Where is it?”

“It’s not uh…” he clears his throat, which feels very dry. “It’s not a thing. You can’t unwrap it.”

She looks back at him with furrowed eyebrows.

“I uh,” he starts. “I’m just going to…”

Holy shit he’s nervous. He can’t remember the last time he was this nervous. He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. He has practiced this so many times, and he’s still terrified he’ll screw it up. He just needs to do it. Just open his mouth and go for it. She’ll be patient with him. She’s the kindest person he’s ever met. She won’t laugh at him, even if he messes it up horrifically.

Right?

_Come on Trevor,_ he thinks. _You blew up a plane while you were still on it. You can do this._

“I loved you the moment I first saw you,” he tells her. But he doesn’t say it in English.

He says it in Greek.

She stares at him, completely stunned. Her mouth is agape and her eyes are wide. Her entire body seems to be frozen in surprise.

“Maybe not the way I love you now,” he tells her, still in Greek. “But I think I knew. I knew I was going to fall in love with you. I didn’t have a choice. How could anyone know you and not love you?”

She hasn’t moved yet. He thinks maybe that’s a good thing, but he isn’t sure. God, he really hopes it’s a good thing.

“Sometimes I’m still not sure why you love me so much,” he says. “I know I don’t deserve it. But I don’t care. I’m just glad you do. And I’m glad we’re going to get forever together, because one lifetime isn’t enough. Not when it comes to loving you.”

That’s it. That’s all he’s got prepared—though for the record, those few sentences took him about a month to come up with.

She doesn’t say anything. He feels like he should fill the silence, like he should say more, but he resists the urge. Instead he holds her gaze, drumming his fingers on his thighs as he waits.

“Steve,” she finally whispers. She gets to her feet. Her expression is still one of startled shock.

“I didn’t memorize it,” he clarifies, still speaking in Greek. He has to say it slower than he was speaking before because he hasn’t practiced this part. “Well, I did,” he amends, realizing how it sounds. “I wanted the first thing I said to be romantic so I spent a month figuring out what to say. But I didn’t memorize just _those_ words.”

She stares at him.

He rubs a hand over his face. “That doesn’t even make sense,” he mutters in English.

“You learned Greek for me,” she breathes. She says it in Greek, almost hesitatingly, and he knows why. She isn’t sure he will understand her.

“Yeah, I did,” he answers her in Greek. Her eyes light up immediately. That spurs him on. “There’s a lot of variations of it,” he says. “Modern, ancient, different dialects.”

She nods. “Greece has a very complicated linguistic history.”

He blinks at her. It takes him a second to process the words, and when he finally does he realizes it’s not just because she isn’t speaking English; it’s because she’s just said one of those things she sometimes says that reminds him just how damn smart she is.

“I learned modern Greek,” he tells her because he doesn’t know a damn thing about Greece’s complicated linguistic history. He shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles apologetically. “I know you probably prefer speaking the oldest one, but it was impossible to find someone to teach it to me. Someone besides you, anyway.” He frowns. “But you can—you can understand me, right? You speak modern Greek?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t know why I asked,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Of course you do. Anyway, I’m sorry that I couldn’t learn the right one. I thought—”

“Don’t be sorry,” she cuts him off. “It’s perfect. It’s...” She shakes her head. “Steve, this is...”

“I’m not totally fluent,” he warns her. “My pronunciation needs work. And I—”

He is cut off by her lips on his, her hands on either side of his face and her body pressing against his in a way that reminds him just how well they fit together, and just how much he loves her.

He would learn a hundred languages for this.

“Thank you,” she says in Greek when she pulls back. Her eyes are gleaming, and she is smiling brilliantly.

He brushes his hand over her face. “I thought if we’re going to spend forever together, it might be nice if you could speak a variation of your first language and be understood.”

With every word he says, the pride shines brighter in her eyes. He can feel it expanding in his chest, too. He worked so hard, and the fact that she likes it as much as he hoped she would—well, it’s even better than he thought it would be.

“How did you learn it?” she murmurs.

“The American military has software that they use for soldiers and…” He frowns. “Um. I think it’s…yeah, I don’t know the word. They’re the guys who represent their country to other countries.”

“Ambassadors,” she supplies, smiling even wider.

“Ambassadors,” he echoes dutifully. “Ambassadors?” he repeats again, unsure if he’s got the pronunciation right.

“Perfect,” she breathes, crowding closer to him. She’s looking at him like he hung the moon, and he can’t get enough of it. He puts his arms around her.

“Vic got it for me,” he continues. “And I found some groups in Paris to practice with. Nice thing about being a liaison...” He pauses and grins, proud he knows the word for _liaison_ even though it was one of the first words he looked up so he’d know how to describe his job. “...is that unless there’s a crisis or a meeting, I’ve got free time. And you have a job. So I had entire days where I could practice.”

“I had no idea,” she says, shaking her head. “Not a clue.”

“I’m a spy,” he says. He knows his chest is puffed out, but he’s too damn proud to feel foolish. He is having a conversation with Diana in Greek. _Greek._ “I can keep a secret. Not that I keep secrets from you,” he adds quickly—so quickly that he stumbles over the words. “I don’t keep secrets,” he says again. “Just this one.”

“I wasn’t worried,” she assures him. She can’t seem to stop touching him. Her hands are roaming freely over his body. He wouldn’t stop her for anything.

“When did you start?”

“March,” he answers. He grins. “Same time you started looking for a guy to fix my watch. I thought I’d start being able to understand you more, but I think you usually speak the ancient version.”

“I do,” she confirms.

“But I can pick up some of the words. When we came in here, you said something about all night?” he asks nonchalantly.

“I said I was going to keep you up all night,” she murmurs. She leans forward, brushing her mouth languidly over his, and desire starts to simmer in his blood. “I have a lot of gratitude to express,” she whispers against his lips. “So probably tomorrow night and the night after that, too.”

“I have no objections,” he says. And then he kisses her deeply, sliding his hands over the small of her back and then lower still. It doesn’t take long before things get a little out of hand, and he presses her back against the wall and wonders if she’d be okay with their first round being vertical.

“Steve,” she breathes. She puts her mouth by his ear, nibbles lightly on his earlobe, and he shudders hard. “Give me two minutes to change?” she murmurs.

He thinks what she’s wearing is fine—it’s just going to end up on the floor anyway—but he doesn’t like to tell her no.

“Yeah, okay.”

He steps back. She brushes past him with a suggestive smile, and he watches her saunter toward the bathroom. When the door closes behind her, he walks over to the bed and collapses onto the mattress, grinning up at the ceiling.

This could not have gone better. God, he is so happy. There is no war outside his window, no duty hanging over his head. Diana loved his gift and she loves him, and they have the whole night in front of them. They have a giant bed and a spectacular view of a moon-silvered lake and snow covered trees and a sky filled with brilliant stars. There’s no way life gets better than this.

“Steve.”

He sits up at the sound of her voice. “Hey, I was thinking that—”

The words die on his lips at the sight of her.

He was so caught up in his nervousness, and then in wanting her, and then in his happiness at how things turned out that he completely forgot why she wanted to change.

He remembers now.

Good _lord._

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the sight of her in that black leather bustier, her dark hair down and curling around her shoulders.

“You were thinking what?” she asks with a smile.

He shakes his head. He can’t remember. He stares at her unabashedly, his mouth open. Her legs—god, her legs go on for _miles._ She put lipstick on too, his favorite shade of red. All his blood is rushing south and he can’t—he wants to say something to her in Greek but he can’t remember any of the words, and she’s just...she’s just so…

“God,” he finally chokes.

“Goddess,” she corrects, smirking.

“You can’t be real,” he breathes in wonder.

She bites her bottom lip and lifts one of her perfect shoulders in a perfect shrug. “Guess you’ll have to come touch me and find out.”

He gets to his feet immediately and crosses the room. Her dark eyes watch him the whole way. When he stops in front of her, she leans toward him invitingly. He traces the curve of the leather garment across her chest, his fingertips smoothing over both her skin and the leather.

“I want to tell you how good you look but I can’t remember any Greek words,” he admits, shaking his head. Her skin is soft and so is the leather and holy shit, he might have an aneurysm before either of them even manage to get naked. “I can’t think of any English words either,” he adds dumbly. “Shit.”

She laughs. “Shall I do the talking then?” she murmurs, draping her arms around his shoulders. “Or is there something else we could be using our mouths for?”

And then she presses her lips to his, and the whole world fades into nothing except the feeling of her body against his.

* * *

On Christmas morning, Diana wakes at dawn.

Steve’s arms are wrapped around her, his chest pressed against her shoulder blades and his legs tangled with hers. She blinks into the still dark room, and memories from last night come flooding back. Steve’s blue eyes trailing up her legs, Steve’s hands on her body, Steve’s mouth whispering Greek words in her ear. Her muscles are sated and pleasantly numb. She is warm, and safe, and deliriously happy.

She shifts in his arms, and he pulls her closer and mumbles sleepily, “Stay.”

Diana smiles, closes her eyes, and decides to sleep in.

She wakes a while later to the sound of her name, and the feel of Steve’s mouth moving lazily over the back of her shoulder.

“You slept in today,” he murmurs, his voice rough but pleased. It’s a rare instance that she’s still in his arms when he wakes up—she’s an early riser, and though she stays in bed and reads on the weekends so that she’s still there when he wakes up, she knows he prefers when she’s actually in his arms.

“Mhmm,” she answers.

She feels the palm of his hand slide over her stomach, and then he pulls her backward and flush against his body. She bites her lip around a smile and whispers, “Are you going to feel me up before you even say Merry Christmas?”

“Merry Christmas,” he says with a soft laugh, and then his hand slips higher, up and over her chest, and her eyes flutter closed. “I have some ideas on how we should spend the morning,” he murmurs, his mouth hot on the back of her neck.

There’s a sudden pounding on their bedroom door, and Barry’s voice shouts loudly and gleefully, “GUYS IT’S CHRISTMAS AND CLARK FROZE THE LAKE FOR ICE SKATING AND THERE’S PANCAKES WAKE UP.”

“Damn it,” Steve groans. His arms start to loosen from around her, but Diana grabs hold of him to keep him in place.

“Stay,” she commands.

“He’ll just keep knocking until we get up.”

“So let him knock,” she says with a shrug. “The door is locked. And this is our first Christmas morning together.”

She guides his hand down the front of her body, over her stomach and lower still, and when his fingers move over her, she arches against him. “Diana,” he breathes in her ear.

“I WILL EAT ALL OF THESE PANCAKES,” Barry shouts amidst another round of knocking. “DON’T SAY YOU HAVEN’T BEEN WARNED.”

“Oh, you love pancakes,” Diana sighs.

“Not as much as I love this,” Steve whispers.

Diana buries her head in her pillow and hopes that Barry won’t hear her moan.

* * *

Barry, Steve, Vic, and Arthur are racing around the frozen surface of the lake and playing an impromptu game of hockey when Diana walks out to the edge of the dock with a travel mug of steaming coffee. She stops next to Bruce, and holds it out to him. He looks down at the mug in surprise.

“Black,” she assures him with a smile. “Like your batsuit.”

He smirks. _Bruce likes his coffee as black as his batsuit_ is one of Barry’s favorite mantras, a lesson he learned the hard way when he tried to bring Bruce a mug of coffee with cream and sugar mixed in and Bruce spit it all over the front of his shirt.

“Thanks,” Bruce says, taking the mug.

Diana leans her elbows against the wooden railing and looks out over the lake. Steve spots her and winks, and she smiles broadly at him.

“He’s pretty good on skates,” Bruce observes.

“He’s pretty good at everything,” Diana says absently. She doesn’t even realize she’s said it until the words are already out of her mouth, and when she glances at Bruce he smirks at her.

“Pathetic,” he teases.

She smiles and does not disagree.

They stand in silence, watching the game. After a while, Bruce says quietly, “It was nice of you to do all this.”

She turns to look at him. He does not look back. She could tease him about how he enjoyed the holiday far more than he lets on, but she doesn’t.

“Thank you for letting me,” she answers instead.

He finally looks at her. A rare but sincere smile stretches across his lips.  “Merry Christmas, Diana.”

She smiles back at him, her body humming with warmth. “Merry Christmas, Bruce.”


	4. Separation

About a month after Steve moves in with Diana, he packs his suitcase and heads back to the States.

In his head he’s taken to calling it The Justice League Tour, a chance to spend some quality time with each of the members of the League in order to get to know them, their backgrounds, and their areas of expertise. He’ll spend a few days with Vic, learning the ins and outs of modern technology; a few days with Bruce finalizing his new suit and his weapon; a few days with Barry to learn about the speed force and modern crime solving; a few days with Arthur to learn about the Atlanteans; and then another few days with Clark to learn about Krypton.

It’s important for him to know as much as possible if he’s going to do his job well. He also genuinely likes each of them, so he’s excited to spend some time with them.

He is not, however, looking forward to being away from Diana for so long.

She takes him to the airport the morning he leaves. They walk silently, hand in hand, to the place where the security lines start. Steve’s been dreading saying goodbye since he woke up this morning. Now that it’s time, it’s even worse than he imagined it would be.

“Are you sure you can’t come?” he murmurs, sliding his hand along her hip and pulling her close.

“Yes,” she says. Her hands smooth over his chest. “You need this time with them. Without me.”

He taps his fingers against the base of her spine. “I don’t like being away from you.”

“I don’t like it either,” she admits. “But I suspect it might be good for us.”

He nods. He knows she’s right. Over the past month, the only time they’ve spent apart have been the weekdays when she’s gone to work. It will be good for them to be separated, and for him to learn to make his way in the modern world without her. But that doesn’t mean he likes it.

“Call me when you land?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says.

She brushes his hair back from his forehead. “I love you.”

He doesn’t hesitate, even though there are hundreds of people around. He palms the small of her back and kisses her. “I love you too,” he whispers.

He forces himself to turn away from her then, because if he doesn’t leave now he won’t leave at all. He looks back one last time after he gets through security. She’s still standing where he left her, watching him. He smiles at her, and then winks. She smiles back, and then he turns on his heel and strides in the direction of his gate.

When the plane takes off, he closes his eyes. He can still see her standing there, tall and dark and stunning in the middle of the crowd.

He misses her already.

* * *

**Nine hours separated**

He calls her when he lands.

“Hi,” she answers after the first ring.

“I miss you already,” he says.

She exhales slowly on the other end of the line. “I miss you too.”

* * *

**One day separated**

Diana wakes to an empty bed.

For a second, it’s as if the last month hasn’t happened. Steve is dead, and has been for a century. She lives alone. She _is_ alone.

But the sheets smell like him. His clothes are hanging in the closet and are folded in his dresser. The book he’s reading is sitting on the bedside table where he left it. He must’ve forgotten to pack it.

Diana rolls onto Steve’s side of the bed, buries her face in his pillow, and inhales. _This is good for us,_ she tells herself. _This is good for him._

That doesn’t mean she likes it.

* * *

**Two days separated**

Steve wakes to the sound of music. He stumbles out of the spare bedroom, bleary eyed and curious. On the couch, Vic looks up from a book titled _Applied Thermodynamics for Engineering Technologists_ and smiles apologetically. The music stops immediately. Steve wonders why Vic bothers to read hardback books when he could just download any information he wants, but he doesn’t ask.

“Sorry,” Vic says. “I didn’t realize how loud it was. I’m not used to sharing space. Did I wake you?“

“No,” Steve lies. “What were you listening to?”

“Old stuff,” Vic answers. He grins. “Well, not as old as you.”

“Funny,” Steve says, wandering into the kitchen. He sets a mug beneath the coffeemaker and presses all the right buttons, then turns back to Vic. “I liked it. Who was it?”

“Ray Charles,” Vic says. “Ever heard of him?”

“No,” Steve answers. “But I haven’t really heard of anyone.”

Vic frowns. “Doesn’t Diana like music?”

“Sure she does,” Steve answers with a shrug. “But it’s not like we sat down and went through all the music I missed while I was dead. She’s been digging up stuff from when I was alive for me to listen to. She thought it might be nice to hear something familiar.”

“That’s thoughtful,” Vic says.

“That’s Diana,” Steve answers, pulling his now full mug out from under the coffeemaker. He sips it slowly.

“I can help if you want,” Vic offers after a moment. “We can figure out what you like while we work. I can play pretty much everything ever made, and it might be nice to have some background noise.”

“Yeah,” Steve says with a smile. “That’d be great.”

They’re halfway through a Ray Charles album and going over the finer points of Microsoft Word when Steve hears a song that makes him go still.

“Can you play that one again?” he asks Vic when it’s over. Vic obliges. Steve listens carefully to the lyrics.

_I’m gonna love you_

_Like nobody’s loved you_

_Come rain or come shine_

_High as a mountain, deep as a river_

_Come rain or come shine_

“You like that one?” Vic asks when it’s over.

Steve nods. “Yeah. Reminds me of Diana.”

“Adorable,” Vic teases.

Steve just shakes his head and smirks.

“You know, you can send it to her if you want,” Vic adds.

“The song?”

“Yeah.” Vic grins. “You could make her a whole playlist.”

“What’s a playlist?”

“It’s like a list of songs. You could make one with all the songs that remind you of her. I did that for a girlfriend once.” His human eye goes glassy, his expression wistful. “She liked it,” he finishes quietly.

Steve isn’t sure what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. Vic snaps out of his reverie an instant later and clears his throat.

“Here,” he says, gesturing at Steve’s shiny new laptop. “I’ll set you up with a streaming account. Then when you hear something you like, you can just add it to the playlist.”

* * *

**Three days separated**

Across from Diana’s apartment is a small bakery that makes croissants. Very, very good croissants. _The best thing I’ve ever had,_ Steve told her last week.

When she leaves for work in the morning, she can smell them. She keeps her head down and keeps walking. She won’t be able to eat one until he’s home.

* * *

“You okay over there?” Vic asks.

Steve turns in his chair. “Yeah, why?”

“You keep playing the first, like, minute of a song and then you change to a different one. And they all have the word _angel_ in the title.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, feeling a flush start to creep over his face. “Well that’s, uh, that’s what I call Diana.”

Vic blinks at him. “You call her _angel?_ Like as a pet name?”

“Yeah.”

Vic sighs. “You two are pathetic.”

“Haters gonna hate,” Steve answers with a smirk. “Shake it off.”

Vic groans.

* * *

_I’ve got an angel_

_She doesn’t wear any wings_

_She wears a heart that could melt my own_

_She wears a smile that could make me want to sing_

“That one’s perfect,” Vic says.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees as he adds it to the playlist.

* * *

**Four days separated**

“It’s getting late. Perhaps we could continue this discussion over dinner?”

Diana smiles at the government official standing before her. “I’m afraid I already have plans for dinner. But I’m sure Monsieur Durand would be happy to accompany you to dinner to answer all your questions.”

Luc Durand steps up behind Diana the moment she says his name. “I’d be happy to,” he says.

The official smiles. “That’s quite all right, Monsieur. I just remembered I’ve got plans of my own.”

Later, Luc leans against the doorframe of Diana’s office. “Do you really have plans for dinner, or were you just trying to shoot him down politely?” he asks.

She smiles. “I have plans.”

Later that night, Diana settles in at the dining table in her empty apartment with a plate of food in front of her.

“All this technology and nobody’s come up with smell-vision,” Steve says wistfully on her laptop screen. “Or an instant transport for drool-worthy goddess food.”

“Is it me or my food that makes you drool?” Diana asks with an arched eyebrow.

Steve grins at her. “Both.”

“Hey Steve, do you—oh, hey Diana.”

“Hello Vic,” Diana greets, smiling.

“We’re having dinner together,” Steve tells Vic. “Well, she’s having dinner. I’m having lunch.”

Vic rolls his eyes. “Of course you are.”

“Haters gonna hate,” Steve says with a grin.

Diana pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Did you just quote Taylor Swift?”

Steve turns a very vivid shade of crimson. Vic roars with laughter.

* * *

**Five days separated**

_Good lord almighty_

_Girl, you go down good_

_You ain’t even trying_

_Cause you wrote the book_

_There ain’t nobody_

_Who do me like you_

_The way you move that body_

_Girl, you’re so smooth_

“Did you just add that to the playlist?” Vic asks.

“Yeah,” Steve answers. “Why?”

Vic makes a face and then ambles toward the kitchen. “Excuse me, I have to go wash my operating system out with bleach.”

* * *

**Six days separated**

On his last night with Vic, Steve finally finishes his playlist. He sends it to Diana the moment it’s done. _Vic’s been catching me up on music,_ he texts after he sends it. _All these songs made me think of you._

It’s about five in the morning in Paris, but he knows she’ll be awake soon if she isn’t already. He wants to wait for her to respond, but his eyes are drooping closed. Eventually, he loses the battle and falls asleep.

His ringing phone wakes him with a start. The screen says it’s Diana. “Hi,” he mumbles into the phone, rubbing his eyes at the momentary brightness.

“Did I wake you?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah,” he answers. “But I’m glad you called.”

There is a brief pause. He wonders what she’s doing. For some reason he imagines her sitting in their closet on the upholstered bench, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else.

“I listened to it,” she tells him.

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

He curls his body around a pillow and wishes it was her. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it.”

Warmth unfurls in his chest. He hadn’t realized he was nervous she wouldn’t like it. He shouldn’t have been. She’s not hard to please.

“I love you,” she says, her voice soft and gorgeous.

He closes his eyes. It hasn’t even been a full week, but he misses her so much it feels like there’s a hole in his chest. “Come rain or come shine,” he murmurs back.

The moment the words come out of his mouth, he feels like an idiot. Vic was right—he is pathetic.

Before he can make fun of himself, though, she says, “I think that one is my favorite.”

He can hear the smile in her voice. She has a beautiful smile. “Me too,” he says, holding the pillow tighter.

* * *

**Seven days separated**

The last time Steve was in this particular bed at Bruce’s house, Diana was with him. He liked it then. He likes it less now. It’s too big, and too cold. Just outside the glass wall, a thick fog hovers over the lake and obscures his view of the stars. For some reason, he finds this deeply unsettling. Maybe because he likes the idea that she’s looking at the same stars he is.

_Pathetic,_ he thinks with a sigh.

He’s tired—he spent the whole day buried in the Batcave, working with Bruce to build a specialized gun worthy of the Justice League’s liaison. Tomorrow they’ll finalize his suit, and then they’ll hit the streets of Gotham and give the suit and the gun a test run. He’s seen Bruce’s scars, and he’s read all about Gotham. He knows he needs a good night’s sleep to prepare. But he’s having a hard time falling asleep without Diana.

He pulls his phone off the bedside table and types out a text. _This bed is cold without you._

Diana answers him five minutes later. _I miss you too._

* * *

**Eight days separated**

“Take a picture of me.”

Bruce blinks. “What?”

“Take a picture of me,” Steve repeats, still holding his phone out between them.

Bruce looks down at the phone as though it is a nuclear bomb. “Why?”

“Because I want Diana to see the suit.”

“Take it yourself.”

“I can’t get the whole suit in a selfie.”

“Use a mirror.”

“Do you see a mirror around here?”

Bruce sighs, rolls his eyes in an eerily accurate imitation of a put-upon teenage girl, and finally takes the phone. He holds it up, and then smirks.

“Aren’t you going to flex or something?” he says.

“Just take the picture, jackass,” Steve answers.

Bruce’s smirk deepens. He takes the picture and then holds the phone back out. Steve immediately texts the picture to Diana. That’s when Alfred enters.

“Captain Trevor,” the older man greets. “Looks like the suit fits nicely.”

“He’s got some room around the biceps,” Bruce says casually, turning toward a table littered with tools and Steve’s new gun.

“That’s cause I asked him to skip the padding he has in his suit,” Steve says to Alfred. “No need to have two Michelin men in black.”

Alfred smiles. Bruce starts to tinker with one of the panels on the side of Steve’s gun. “Careful Trevor,” he says, squinting at the gun. “I might rig your gun to shoot backwards and knock you on your ass.”

“Hopefully you and your suit will be there to break my fall,” Steve shoots back. “Nice and cushy from all that bicep padding.”

Bruce smirks up at him. Steve grins. His phone rings.

“Tell her I said hello,” Bruce says, turning his attention back to the gun.

“And me as well,” Alfred adds.

“Hey,” Steve answers the phone. “Bruce and Alfred send their greetings. One more smartass than the other.”

Bruce is still smirking. On the other end of the phone line, Diana laughs. “If he mocks you, he likes you.”

“Must like me a lot then,” Steve says, turning away from Bruce and Alfred. He wanders in the opposite direction and out of earshot. “You get my picture?”

“I did.”

“What do you think?”

She hums as if she’s considering his question. “It’s very fetching.”

Steve grins. “It’s not supposed to be fetching. It’s supposed to be badass.”

“Of course,” Diana answers. He can hear her smile. “You look very badass, then. But will there be a helmet of some sort? Or, I don’t know, a mask? Seems like you might want to protect your head. It’s a very nice head. I’m rather fond of it.”

“We’re working on it,” Steve assures her. “It’ll be made of the same stuff as the suit, we just need to find a design that I like. Bruce says the material is virtually indestructible.”

“I’m glad,” she says sincerely.

“So you really like it?”

“I do.”

There is a brief pause. Steve thinks he can hear some rustling papers in the background. “If you’re busy with work, I can let you go,” he offers.

“I’m not busy,” she says. “I was looking for my headphones so I could look at the picture again.”

“To make sure you actually like it?” he asks.

“No,” she answers. “Because I like looking at you.”

Steve looks down at his body in the suit. “I do look good in it.”

“Mhmm,” she agrees. “But if I were there, I’d take it off you. You look best in nothing at all.”

She says it matter-of-factly, the same way she would say _we need to buy some milk_ or _it’s cold so wear a coat._ He hasn’t seen her in eight days, and he misses her, and so his body reacts immediately.

“Diana,” he hisses, glancing over his shoulder at Bruce and Alfred. Neither of the men are paying him any attention.

“What?” she asks innocently.

“I’m in the Batcave. Bruce and Alfred are here.”

“So?”

“So I haven’t seen you in eight days and when you say things like that I…” he trails off.

“React?” she offers.

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re the worst. The _actual_ worst.”

She laughs. “I can help, if you’d like.”

“Help?” he repeats stupidly, his voice an octave higher than he means it to be. He’d like her help. He’d like her help very much. But she’s in another country on another continent, the very definition of _out of reach,_ and he won’t see her again for another two weeks. It feels like an eternity. “You’re about a thousand miles away, Diana,” he reminds her.

“Well, you’ll have to help too,” she says simply. “We can do it together.”

He can’t find his voice. He closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe.

“Steve?” she says.

He sighs. “I’m not sure how…”

“Let’s start with you leaving the Batcave,” she tells him. Her voice is calm, clinical. He has a brief fantasy of her dressed as a buttoned-up school teacher, but instead of a ruler she’s holding a glowing lasso. God, he is in so much trouble.

“You’re on the phone, so Bruce won’t ask why,” she continues. “Just turn and go.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere private.”

“And what happens when I get there?”

“I’ll tell you what I’d do if I were there.”

Steve tugs at the collar of his suit. It suddenly feels very tight and very hot. “Aren’t you at work?”

“In my office,” she confirms. “The door is closed and Sophie is busy, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“And you’re just going to...I mean, you want me to actually…”

“Well if you don’t want to—” she starts.

“I do,” he cuts her off vehemently. He doesn’t have to see her to know that she is smiling at his response. “I mean, I do,” he says, this time more calmly. “Just...give me two minutes.”

* * *

“Fucking hell,” Steve murmurs when he finally finds his voice. “Fucking _hell,_ Diana, that was... _”_

“Good?” she murmurs in his ear. She sounds smug. He doesn’t care. She should be. She can’t touch him. He can’t even see her. And yet somehow she can still...

“Yeah,” he sighs. His blood feels like liquid lead in his veins, his limbs heavy with the desire to roll over and take a nap. He has no idea how he’s supposed to go back down to the Batcave and look Bruce and Alfred in the eye without blushing.

“Glad to help,” Diana says, and damn it, it sounds like she enjoyed it just as much as he did.

“Can I return the favor?” he asks. He’s nervous as hell at the thought of doing what she just did, but he likes to please her and he thinks she might be missing him, too.

“I’m afraid that’s not an option at the moment.”

He thinks he can hear a trace of regret in her voice. “Maybe later?” he suggests.

“I’d like that,” she murmurs.

* * *

Steve and Bruce apprehend a trio of gang members on the east side of Gotham late that night. Bruce certainly could have handled them on his own, but he stands back and lets Steve do the honors. Two of them fall prey to the stun setting on Steve’s sleek new gun. The third gets a tranq dart in the ass when he tries to run away.

“This thing is badass,” Steve says when Bruce lands next to him in the alley.

“I’ve only met one man who’s a better shot than you,” Bruce growls, his voice distorted by his cowl. “Which means you hit him in the ass on purpose.”

Steve shrugs. “He told that lady he wanted to tap her ass. I thought I’d give him a taste of his own medicine.”

Bruce smirks. “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

* * *

**Nine days separated**

Diana is on the phone with a colleague from London when her assistant pokes her head in the door. Diana waves her in, and then turns her attention back to her computer screen.

“Thursday it is,” she says into the phone. “I’ll see you then.”

She hangs up the phone, and then adds her new meeting to her calendar.

“I need to be in London on Thursday,” she tells Sophie. “Can you call and reschedule with Monsieur Croix, please?”

“Of course,” Sophie says. “Shall I book a flight and a room for your London trip?”

“Just a flight. The earlier the better.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Diana finally looks away from her screen, but she can barely see Sophie around the giant bouquet of flowers in her assistant’s hands.

“These came for you,” Sophie says with a smirk, leaning out around the bouquet. “From your dashing American, I think. Though I never can be too sure. You have a veritable army of admirers whether you’re on the market or off.”

“Hyperbole,” Diana says modestly as she gets to her feet. “Is there a card?”

Sophie holds out a white envelope. Diana takes it from her and opens it. Inside is a slip of paper with a typed message.

_Angel,_

_Tonight. 8:00 pm your time. I’ll be calling to return the favor._

_I love you._

_Steve_

Diana smiles.

“I’ve seen that smile before,” Sophie says knowingly. “That’s your dashing American smile.”

“He is very dashing,” Diana acknowledges.

“I’ll get a vase and some water for these,” Sophie says. She ducks out of the office with a grin.

Diana drops into her chair and reaches for her cell phone. _Thank you for the flowers,_ she types.

His reply is almost immediate. _Does 8:00 work?_

He’s like a dog with a bone, and she loves it. _Yes,_ she types. _It’s a date._

For a moment, three dots hover on her phone screen. She waits. They disappear. She thinks she knows what he wants to say but won’t, so she saves him the trouble.

_FaceTime?_ she texts.

He isn’t here, but she can hear his voice anyway. _Fucking hell, Diana._ Desire pools low in her abdomen, aching and hot. Zeus, she misses him. She bites her lip around a smile, only to laugh when his reply comes through.

_Fuck yes._

* * *

Later that night, Diana’s eyes are closed as she tries to catch her breath. She can hear him trying to do the same.

“Good?” he asks, his voice low and edged with satisfaction.

She opens her eyes, smiles at the screen, and whispers _yes, very good_ in Greek.

He groans, just like he always does when she speaks her favorite language. “When I get home...” he starts, a promise heavy in his words.

“When you get home, you’ll what?” she challenges.

Steve lets out a string of muttered curse words, and then he takes a deep breath. “Well for starters…”

* * *

**Ten days separated**

“You got me a present?” Steve asks.

Bruce looks very, very annoyed. “I did _not_ get you a present.”

“He _made_ you one,” Alfred interjects dryly.

Bruce turns a withering stare on his butler, but the older man does not seem to care.

Steve snorts. “Did you put a bow on it?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

Bruce turns his withering stare back toward the spy. “Nevermind. I’ll give it to Arthur.”

“No, come on,” Steve says, holding his hands out. “Don’t be afraid of our bromance, Bruce. Embrace it.”

Bruce lifts his eyebrows. “Who taught you that word?”

“What word? Bromance?”

Bruce nods.

Steve grins. “Who do you think?”

“Barry,” Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“He texts me a word of the day every day,” Steve says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Yesterday it was _hella._ ”

“Hella?” Alfred repeats.

“Yeah. As in, Bruce is hella mad that Barry is teaching me modern slang.”

Bruce sighs. Again. “Just show it to him, Alfred.”

Alfred smirks. He pulls a white sheet back with a flourish and reveals a gleaming black motorcycle with some very Batman-like additions. Steve gapes at it.

“You can’t fly or run fast,” Bruce says. “I thought you might want a way to keep up. We can keep it on the Fox.”

“Are these _guns?_ ” Steve asks, gesturing excitedly at the side of the bike. “My motorcycle has _guns?!_ ”

“Yeah.”

Steve strokes his hand along the barrel of one of the guns reverently. “So badass.”

“I think you mean _hella_ badass,” Bruce says, turning away with a smirk.

* * *

When Diana calls Barry, he picks up after the first ring. “What’s up, Wonder Woman?”

Diana smiles. “Hello Barry.”

“I was just about to call you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. So I’ve got this new apartment, right? But I haven’t uh...I don’t have any furniture yet. I’ve been sleeping on an air mattress. And I was just wondering if Steve would hate that? I mean, he won’t have to sleep on mine. I got him his own. But will that...I mean, will he want a bed?”

“He will be just fine with an air mattress,” Diana assures the speedster. “But you shouldn’t feel like you need to go through too much trouble, Barry. He can stay in a hotel. He won’t want to be an imposition.”

“No way!” Barry scoffs. “I’ve got it all planned out. Do all the work stuff during the day, but then at night we’ll have bro time. Video games, crash course in pop culture, pizza and beer—he likes beer, right?”

Diana smiles. “Yes, he likes beer. But like I said, you don’t need to fuss. He won’t expect it. He’s just excited to spend time with you.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” Diana says, leaning back in her chair. “Who wouldn’t be excited to spend time with you?”

She can’t see him, but she’s fairly certain that Barry’s face is flushing crimson and that he’s scratching the back of his neck shyly.

“Thanks, Di,” he says softly, sounding relieved. “It’s the first time anyone will be in my new place, and I want it to be nice. I wanted to get furniture before anyone came, but it’s kind of expensive, and there’s just so many options...I mean, how do you know what all to get? How much do you get? Are there certain colors and styles and stuff that are cool? Ugh. Don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter. Sorry. I’m babbling. Anyway. Why’d you call?”

Diana wants to answer all of his questions, but she doesn’t want to fuss over him too much. She tries not to mother hen him, though Zeus knows she’s always sorely tempted to.

“I was hoping you could do me a favor,” she answers. “It will involve quite a bit of running if you agree.”

She can hear his smile even though she can’t see it. “Of course I agree. Your wish is my command.”

* * *

**Eleven days separated**

When Steve gets to baggage claim at the Central City airport, Barry is waiting alongside some uniformed chauffeurs with a goofy smile and a massive poster board that says _Steve Trevor._

“Hey Bar,” Steve greets, opening his arms.

Barry grins at the gesture and catapults himself into Steve’s arms. When he pulls back, he is still grinning wildly. “What’s up, Cap? Good flight? Did you check bags? Are you tired? Hungry?”

“That’s a lot of questions,” Steve laughs. “Flight was fine, no checked bags, not tired, could probably eat. Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Glad to hear you’re hungry,” Barry says with a mischievous glint in his eye. He slides a bag off his shoulder, reaches inside, and pulls out a familiar looking white box.

Steve stares down at the French writing on top of the box. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I dunno what’s in it,” Barry answers with a shrug. “Diana said if I opened the box before you did she’d bind me with her lasso and ask me embarrassing questions at the next League meeting.”

Steve snorts, and then takes the box. When he opens it, he finds that it is stuffed with croissants from the bakery across the street from his and Diana’s apartment. The smell hits him full force—God, he _loves_ these things—and when he reaches for one he realizes that they’re still warm. He glances up at Barry.

“Did you…?”

“Yep,” Barry says, beaming. “Ran right across the Atlantic. You may call me Jesus from now on. Or Savior Of The World, that is also acceptable.” His gaze darts down to the box. “Please tell me you’re going to share.”

“I think you earned it,” Steve laughs. He hands Barry a croissant, and then pulls his phone from his pocket.

“Ohmygod,” Barry groans with his mouth still full, his eyes rolling back into his head. “I have died and gone to heaven. What is this buttery sorcery?”

“Imagine living across from this place,” Steve says as he presses his thumb to the screen and then lifts the phone to his ear. “I might weigh a thousand pounds next time you see me.”

Barry swallows the rest of his croissant and grins. “I’ll still love you. Even if Di kicks you to the curb for a sleeker model.”

“Hello love,” Diana says in Steve’s ear from the other end of the phone line.

The sound of her voice makes his lips smooth into a smile. “I love you.”

She laughs. “You love croissants.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, smiling wider. “But I love you more.”

“Lucky me,” she hums.

* * *

**Twelve days separated**

Diana smiles in the back of a London taxi as the car drives past a familiar building. She can’t resist the urge to call Steve.

“Hey beautiful,” Steve answers.

“Do you seriously answer the phone like that?” Barry says in the background. “Or are you just trying to make me feel bad about my relationship status? Because if you are, it’s working.”

“Just pick a damn couch,” Steve replies.

“Are you couch shopping?” Diana asks.

“Yeah,” Steve answers. “Some place called ITEA.”

“IKEA,” Barry’s voice corrects. “Do you think this couch makes me look fat?”

“How the hell would—you know what, nevermind. I’m going over there. By the time I get back, you better have a damn couch picked out.”

Diana can hear Barry whining in the background, but she cannot understand what he’s saying. “Sorry,” Steve murmurs into the phone. “We’ve been here for hours. It’s like shopping with a toddler. He sees something shiny and boom, he’s distracted.”

“It’s kind of you to take him to do that,” Diana says.

Steve chuckles. “It was your idea, angel.”

“But you did not have to follow through.”

“Yeah, well, when a pretty goddess asks me to do something I do it.”

Diana bites her bottom lip. “I’ll try to remember that,” she practically purrs.

“Don’t you start with me when I’m in the middle of a giant furniture warehouse with Barry,” Steve hisses.

Diana laughs. “I only called because I just drove by Selfridge’s and thought of you.”

“Selfridge’s,” he echoes, his voice thoughtful. “Blast from the past.”

“Mhmm,” she agrees. “You were very dashing in that suit. It brought out your eyes.”

“Well maybe we’ll have to find another one like it. I can wear something for you for a change.”

“I would like that.”

“Yeah? That’s all it takes for you, huh? A three piece suit and a trench coat?”

“Seriously?” Barry’s voice interrupts. “Are you having phone sex right now? In _IKEA?_ Do you two have no _shame?!_ ”

Diana laughs so delightedly at the mental image of Steve’s flushed face and Barry’s shocked expression that the cab driver glances at her in the mirror.

“I have to go kill Barry,” Steve hisses. “I’ll call you later.”

There’s a click on the other end of the line. Diana lowers the phone and taps out a quick text to Barry.

_Better run, Flash._

A few minutes later, she gets a response. It is a picture of a glaring, grumpy Steve sitting on a bright red couch. _He loves me and my new couch,_ the text beneath the picture says.

Diana laughs.

* * *

**Thirteen days separated**

“Okay, don’t look now, but she’s—I SAID DON’T LOOK NOW.”

“Good lord Barry,” Steve sighs, rolling his eyes. “If she sees us it’s going to be because you’re acting like a lunatic.”

“But you—”

“I am a _spy,_ ” Steve cuts him off. “I know how to observe a target without the target knowing. Also, for the record, she’s _across the damn street._ We’re not even in the same building.”

“Hm,” Barry says thoughtfully. “Point taken. Okay. She’s the one in the blue shirt. Shiny hair. Perfect skin. Smiles like an angel.”

Steve blinks at him.

“What?” Barry says. “She does.”

“How did you two meet again?”

“At school. She’s, like, wicked smart. And also super nice. She says hi to me _every time_ she sees me.”

“And you’re still afraid to talk to her?”

“Well, _yeah,_ ” Barry says as though Steve is an idiot. (Steve is _not_ an idiot, for the record, though he’s sorely tempted to tell Barry that he’s acting like one.) “She could just be being nice because she’s a nice person. I bet people fall in love with her all the time. I mean _look_ at her. How could you not?”

Steve sighs. “I don’t understand how you justify making fun of me for being lovesick over Diana when you sit across the street like a stalker and watch Iris type on her laptop every night.”

“I don’t do this _every_ night,” Barry says defensively.

“Probably because she isn’t studying every night,” Steve mutters.

Barry nods. “Yeah, she usually only goes there on Mondays and Wednesdays.” He freezes, and then looks over at Steve with wide eyes. “That sounded so creepy.”

“Yeah it definitely did,” Steve agrees. “It might be less creepy if you actually sat in the same coffee shop as her instead of at the bar across the street.”

“But then she would see me.”

“Exactly. Then you could talk to her. Start a conversation. Flirt.”

“I don’t know _how_ to flirt!” Barry exclaims. He leans across the table. “Can you teach me?”

Steve stares at him. “Teach you how to flirt?”

“Yeah.”

“No way.”

“Oh come on. Why not? You must be good at it if you got Diana. She’s a _goddess._ ”

“I didn’t _get_ Diana,” Steve corrects. “She saved me from drowning and her mother interrogated me and then we went to war together.”

“And you didn’t flirt with her at all? Not even a little?”

Steve thinks about how he told her he was above average while he was stark naked, and then about their time together on the boat, discussing sleeping arrangements and the pleasures of the flesh.

“If I did, I didn’t do it very well,” he admits.

“Cause you suck at it?” Barry supplies.

“I don’t suck at it,” Steve says, almost offended. “I’m an excellent flirt when it comes to a mark. But Diana wasn’t a mark. She was...she _is_...I don’t know, special.”

“So is Iris,” Barry insists. “So what am I supposed to do? I can’t take her to war and blow myself up on a plane to impress her.”

“Good lord, Barry,” Steve says, rubbing his temples. “I didn’t do that to impress Diana, I...you know what, nevermind. Stop being a chicken and go talk to her.”

Barry glowers at him. “If Diana were here she would smack you for calling me that.”

“No she wouldn’t. She’d tell you the same thing I’m about to: Quit mooning over this girl from across the street and _go talk to her._ ”

Barry stares at Iris longingly. “What if she thinks I’m weird?”

“Then she’s an idiot and you shouldn’t date her anyway.”

Barry sighs. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“I bet you say that every Monday and Wednesday,” Steve says into his beer.

Barry throws a crumpled napkin at him. “Shut up.”

* * *

**Fourteen days separated**

“You have a talent,” Barry tells Steve while staring at his newly put together couch.

Steve shrugs and takes a swig of beer. “I just followed the directions.”

“Those directions were gibberish. Seriously, Steve, this could be profitable. You could put an ad in Craigslist for your IKEA construction skills.”

“What the hell is Craigslist?”

“Modern day classifieds,” Barry says. “Sometimes shady, sometimes useful.” He sinks onto the couch and then groans. “Holy _shit_ this is comfortable. This, as Lizzie McGuire once said, is what dreams are made of.”

“Old girlfriend?” Steve guesses.

Barry grins. “She wishes.” He gestures at the couch. “Please, sit. Enjoy your handiwork.”

Steve sinks down onto the couch and then nods. “Yeah. I did good.”

“You did good,” Barry agrees. “I owe you.”

There is a brief silence, and then Steve looks over at the speedster. “You think you could do me a favor? Well, a series of favors? Over the next few days?”

Barry grins. “For Diana, you mean?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah, for sure. I’m like you guys’ little love messenger.” He frowns. “That sounded weirder than I meant it.”

* * *

**Fifteen days separated**

Steve is spending four days in Atlantis with Arthur. It’s a huge honor, and Diana is still shocked that Arthur managed to arrange it. She’s proud that Steve will be the first human in Atlantis in a very long time, and confident that no one can handle it better than he can.

She’s also terrified.

She will not be able to speak to him for the duration of his trip, since there’s no cell service or internet in that part of the ocean. As if that weren’t bad enough, he’ll also be in constant danger: The Atlanteans are not exactly human-friendly, and they’re definitely not friendly toward soldiers working for clandestine government agencies. Diana knows that Steve can take care of himself. She knows Arthur is smart and capable, and that he will protect Steve with his life.

She’s still terrified.

Steve calls her the morning he leaves. Neither of them really know what to say, and so for a while they just sit on the phone in silence. It’s the first time in fifteen days that Diana has seriously considered whispering _Please cut your trip short and come home._ When it’s time for him to go, she can barely say the words _Be careful I love you_ without her voice cracking.

That night, she struggles to fall asleep. She stares at the ceiling and tries not to imagine all the ways she could lose him. When she finally manages to drift off, it is fitful and fevered.

She jolts awake in the middle of the night from a nightmare. It’s the first time Steve isn’t there to comfort her. She hugs her knees to her chest and closes her eyes and tries to control her breathing. She is desperate to hear his voice, to feel the beat of his heart, to curl into his arms and rest. But his side of the bed is empty and cold, and she is alone.

She barely sleeps for the rest of the night. Just before dawn, she thinks she hears something out on the terrace. She sits up, her nerves frazzled from the restless night, and sees a shadow. She flies from the bed and flings open the door, but there is no one there. There is a brief rush of air, and then suddenly there is a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a handwritten note in her hands. The handwriting is Steve’s, and it says:

_i carry your heart with me (i carry it in_

_my heart) i am never without it (anywhere_

_i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done_

_by only me is your doing, my darling)_

_i fear_

_no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want_

_no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)_

_and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant_

_and whatever a sun will always sing is you_

 

_here is the deepest secret nobody knows_

_(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud_

_and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows_

_higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)_

_and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart_

 

_i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)_

Diana traces her fingertips over the words and feels the indentations from the press of Steve’s pen. Poetry is an inside joke of theirs, dating back to the days after Barry first brought Steve back from the dead. A handwritten copy of a poem like this after their first night truly and completely separated is exactly the kind of playful but sincere gesture that Steve would dream up for her, and she finds that her eyes are suddenly warm with tears.

She glances out over the city, searching for a sign of Barry, but there isn’t one. She doesn’t need to see him to know that he was the messenger. She heads back into the apartment, and puts the bouquet in a vase on the dining table. Then she takes a mug of tea out to the terrace, sips it while she watches the sunrise, and tries not to worry about Steve.

* * *

**Sixteen days separated**

Diana’s morning is filled with mindless meetings. She doodles idly on the corner of a sheet of paper during a budget meeting, and spends a conference call on social media strategy staring at the ceiling. She barely tastes her lunch, and can’t remember what she ate the moment after she throws the container away. She doesn’t like feeling this way—not in control of her emotions, nervous, uninterested in a job that she has always loved. She decides that tomorrow, she will not be this way. Tomorrow, she will be better.

Today, though...today all she can think about is Steve.

Around one o’clock, she asks Sophie to hold all her calls so that she can spend the afternoon in the restoration room. She slips her headphones into her ears when she gets there so that she won’t have to endure small talk with her colleagues. She selects the playlist that Steve made for her, and turns the volume up louder than normal.

She works late into the evening because she can’t bear going home to an empty apartment again. Around six o’clock, when all her colleagues have gone and she is listening to the playlist for the fifth time, a sudden gust of air moves the strands of her hair.

On the table next to her current project, in a spot that was previously unoccupied, appears a pint of ice cream and another handwritten poem. Her lips curl upward of their own accord, and she puts her brushes down to reach for the sheet of paper.

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds_

_Admit impediments. Love is not love_

_Which alters when it alteration finds,_

_Or bends with the remover to remove._

_O no! it is an ever-fixed mark_

_That looks on tempests and is never shaken;_

_It is the star to every wand’ring bark,_

_Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken._

_Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks_

_Within his bending sickle’s compass come;_

_Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,_

_But bears it out even to the edge of doom._

_If this be error and upon me prov’d,_

_I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d._

Diana’s smile widens. Steve has sent her Shakespeare. Steve—her actions-speak-louder-than-words, I’m-not-really-a-poetry-guy, flyboy, soldier, spy—has carefully copied the passionate words of the world’s most famous poet onto a sheet of paper and had it hand-delivered to her in his absence.

If he were here she would tease him about it endlessly. She would smile at the blush creeping over his face and kiss his lips when he stuttered to qualify his sentimentality, and then she would take him home and to bed to make it perfectly clear that yes, she is teasing him but also yes, she adores the gesture and him.

It’s been over a month since Barry brought him back to her. They have learned quite a bit about each other in that time, and she has found that her initial appraisal of him was correct: He is not what most women would qualify as a romantic. Their life together is not filled with rose petals and grand gestures or love letters and presents wrapped in bows. He is more likely to show her he loves her by making breakfast in the morning or doing her laundry or taking her to bed with the single-minded focus of a soldier who still behaves as though each night is his last.

She likes this about him. She has dated romantic men in the past, and she always felt like their gestures were self-centered and hollow—like they were meant to be more about the lover’s romantic prowess than about making her feel special and loved. Steve is not that way. He is sincere, and earnest, and almost painfully selfless. When he brings her flowers, he does it because she likes flowers. When he curated a playlist of songs for her, he did it because he thought she would like it.

The ice cream on her table and the poem in her hand are no different. Steve did not ask Barry to bring her ice cream because he thought it would make her love him more. He did it because she likes ice cream. He did not write out Shakespeare’s 116th sonnet because it’s what good, romantic boyfriends are supposed to do. He did it because he wanted to remind her amidst their separation that their love—much like the love Shakespeare wrote about—is not beholden to time. It doesn’t matter that he’s deep under the ocean, that they haven’t seen each other in sixteen days, or that they spent a century apart. He loves her. She loves him. The end.

For the first time all day, Diana can’t stop smiling.

* * *

**Seventeen days separated**

Diana misses Steve. She misses him desperately and deeply and without respite. It is as if her bones have transformed into tuning forks: Every time she thinks of him it feels like she’s been struck, and her body vibrates with the aching pain of his absence.

She did not realize how much she had come to depend on being able to pick up the phone and call him anytime she needed to hear his voice. She underestimated the power of a text message. Now that she has been without him for days, she has started to feel the same way she did for a century—not just alone, but lonely.

It does not help that she isn’t sure if he’s safe. He could be laughing with Arthur right now, eating Atlantean food and regaling Mera and others with stories of Arthur’s exploits on land. He could be huddled in a cell, in shackles and imprisoned with Arthur nowhere in sight. He could be hurt, dying, dead.

_He’s not dead,_ she tells herself, gritting her teeth.

_He could be,_ a small voice in the back of her mind insists anyway.

Sophie bustles into her office around four that afternoon, chattering about an upcoming event, and Diana is so lost in worried thoughts about Steve that she jumps—literally jumps—in her chair at the interruption. Sophie goes immediately still.

“I’m so sorry, mademoiselle. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh no, don’t apologize,” Diana says, waving her hand and getting to her feet. “It’s nothing. I was daydreaming. What were you saying?”

Sophie gives her a long look, equal parts skeptical and concerned. “Mademoiselle, are you sure you’re alright? These last few days you’ve been very...jumpy.”

“Of course,” Diana says, pasting on a smile. “Just fighting a cold, I think.”

“I’ll get you some tea,” Sophie says, frowning in sympathy. “Do you need anything else? Soup? Or maybe some cold medicine?”

“No, thank you,” Diana says. “Now what were you saying?”

Sophie starts to chatter again, and Diana tries her hardest to listen carefully. When her assistant disappears again, off to fetch some tea, Diana sinks into her chair and presses her fingers to her temples. This isn’t like her. She should not be this anxious. She has not slept in days. She’s not eating well. She’s not human—these things do not affect her the way they affect her colleagues and friends, but they do matter.

Despite her explanation to Sophie, she is not physically sick. She is perhaps, she thinks wryly, heartsick.

Steve should be back on land tomorrow. But instead of excitedly waiting for his call, her anxiety is growing into a gnawing, cavernous dread. The same questions continue to prod her: What if he doesn’t call? What if something is wrong? What if he’s hurt? What if he’s scared and alone? What if she’s lost him again and she doesn’t even know it?

Later, she will wonder why she didn’t feel the gust of air. In the moment, though, she doesn’t consider how the envelope got there. She just opens her eyes to find that it is sitting before her on her desk, along with another sheet of paper filled with Steve’s handwriting.

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways._

_I love thee to the depth and breadth and height_

_My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight_

_For the ends of Being and ideal Grace._

_I love thee to the level of everyday’s_

_Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light._

_I love thee freely, as men strive for Right._

_I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise._

_I love thee with the passion put to use_

_In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith._

_I love thee with a love I seemed to lose_

_With my lost saints — I love thee with the breath,_

_Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,_

_I shall but love thee better after death._

Diana passes her hand over the sheet of paper and thinks, _I love this man with every inch of my soul._

She glances down at the envelope on her desk. There is nothing written on the outside, no clue to indicate what is within. She opens it. Inside, she finds a folded sheet of paper. When she unfolds it, she sees that it is a printed menu from the restaurant that Steve took her to for their first date. She can still picture it clearly: The cobblestone street; the front of the tiny restaurant painted a vivid, candy apple red; the cozy interior with red and white checkered tablecloths and painted walls and dim lighting that made his eyes bright and his smile soft. Scrawled at the top of the menu, also in Steve’s handwriting, is a note that reads: _Reservation for 2, Monday the 16th, 8:30 pm._ The 16th is the day after he returns from his trip.

Diana closes her eyes, and prays that they’ll be able to keep their reservation.

* * *

**Eighteen days separated**

Being in Atlantis is an unbelievable experience, and Steve learns so much he thinks his head might explode. There is a lot of talk about him being the first human in a very, very long time to step foot in Atlantis. Arthur is still working out his role as liaison between Atlantis and the world of man, so many of the Atlanteans aren’t thrilled by Steve’s presence in their kingdom. Steve knows this because they glare at him when they see him. He also knows this because Arthur insists on sleeping in the same room as Steve despite the considerable amount of space in the palace.

When the visit finally comes to a close, Arthur leaves him on the shores of Cape Cod just before the sun sets. Steve has a room booked in a nearby hotel. He’ll fly to Metropolis tomorrow. The moment his feet are planted on dry land, though, he calls Diana.

She answers after the first ring. “Steve,” she says. He can hear the relief clearly in her voice. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he assures her. “Arthur took very good care of me.”

She sighs heavily. There is a long pause, and Steve closes his eyes and imagines her sitting in their apartment on the couch, a mug of tea and a book sitting on the coffee table before her. He longs to be there with her, to be able to wrap her in his arms and pull her close and stroke his fingers through her hair until they fall asleep.

“How was it?” she asks softly. Her voice sounds strained.

“Good,” he answers. “Learned a ton. I think I understand Arthur a lot better. I made a few friends, too. Not very many, though. They really don’t like humans.”

“They distrust them,” she says. “Rightfully so, I think. They do not like Amazons, either. But we are old enemies.”

“Enemies?” Steve repeats, surprised.

“It is a long story.”

She sounds exhausted. “Are you okay?” he asks.

There is another brief pause. When she speaks, her voice is quiet. “I haven’t slept in days.”

He’s a little surprised she admitted it. He feels awful that he made her worry so much. “Diana,” he breathes.

“Don’t say it,” she says, a humorless laugh threading through her voice. “I already know. Arthur is quite capable of handling himself, as are you.”

“Doesn’t stop you from worrying.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Steve sits down right in the damp sand and stares out across the waves at the horizon. Neither of them say anything for a long time. If he closes his eyes and listens to the sound of the waves, he can almost imagine being back on Themyscira and waking up to find her hovering over him, drops of water clinging to her skin. The desire to touch her, kiss her, hold her throbs painfully in his chest.

“I don’t know how much longer I can be away from you,” he confesses.

“A few nights in Metropolis with Clark, and then you’ll be home,” she answers softly. “I’ll take Monday off. We can stay in bed all day.”

_But I want to be home now,_ he almost says. _I want to hear your voice in person instead of through a phone. I want to have dinner with you and watch TV with you and wake up with you in my arms. I want to spend the whole night reminding you what it feels like when I love you._

“Okay,” he says instead. He does not want to make this harder for her than it already is. He wonders if this is what she felt like all those years when he was dead—an unbearable ache in the chest, a tightness in the throat, an ever-present feeling like something is missing. At least he knows he’ll get to see her again. She didn’t have that luxury.

“I don’t know how much longer I can be away from you either,” she whispers.

* * *

**Nineteen days separated**

Steve jolts awake when his plane lands on the runway at Metropolis International Airport.

He stares blearily out the window while the plane taxis toward the gate. The sky is nothing but endless gray clouds, and the pavement looks wet. Steve wonders what the weather is like in Paris, and if Diana is out enjoying it or if she’s buried in the restoration room with a colossal statue of one of her relatives.

When the announcement comes over the speakers that it’s okay to use his cell phone, he switches it off airplane mode and texts her. _Just landed._

She responds immediately. _How was the flight?_

_Fine. Would’ve been better if it was going to Paris instead of Metropolis._

The ellipsis hovers on the screen, and then she answers, _I can’t wait to hold you._

Steve closes his eyes and leans his head back against the seat. Three days until he gets to see her again. Three days until he can wrap her in his arms and bury his head in the crook of her neck and inhale the scent of her. Three days until he can feel the smoothness of her skin and the silken strands of her hair and the softness of her lips.

Three days is a damn eternity, and this Justice League Tour is the dumbest idea he’s ever had. He’s never leaving her side again.

He texts Clark next. _Just landed._

_Awesome!_ Clark texts back immediately. _We’re here. We’ll meet you at baggage claim._

Steve blinks at the words. Who is _we?_

_He must have brought Lois,_ Steve realizes. He knows that Lois and Diana are close, and that Lois has been eager to meet him. He’s not nervous, per se, but he definitely wants to make a good impression. He read a bunch of Lois’ work before he fell asleep, and he’s been following current events closely so that he won’t make a fool of himself in conversation. He hopes its enough. It’d be easier if Diana were here—she has a way of making him feel calm and sure of himself, even in the midst of a world he’s still trying to understand. But she’s on the other side of the ocean.

He slips his headphones into his ears, selects the playlist he made for Diana, and turns the volume up loud. When the plane finally stops he waits until everyone else gets off, and then slings his duffle bag over his shoulder and shuffles off.

He follows the signs toward baggage claim. At the bottom of a long escalator, there are masses of people waiting and hugging and talking. Steve pulls the headphones out of his ears and is scanning the crowd, looking for Clark’s broad shoulders and dark hair, when he sees her.

He stops dead in his tracks, stunned. People brush by him, heading for the baggage carousel, but he pays them no attention. He’s too busy gaping at Diana, trying to remember how to breathe. He thinks, at first, that she’s just a figment of his imagination—that he misses her so much that his mind is playing a trick on him. But then she smiles, her lips curving upward and the corners of her eyes crinkling, and his heart stutters in his chest and then roars to life.

“Diana,” he breathes, lurching forward.

She moves forward too, far more gracefully than he does. He breaks into a run, weaving through the crowds of people. He doesn’t care if he looks too eager or too desperate. All he cares about is getting to her as fast as he can. When he’s only a few feet away, he drops his duffle bag on the floor and catches her when she throws herself into his arms.

“Steve,” she whispers in his ear, her arms around his neck. She whispers something else, something in Greek, and he closes his eyes and squeezes her tightly. He presses his face down into the curve of her shoulder and inhales. She smells like flowers. She is warm in his arms, strong and lithe and real, and he is never _ever_ letting her out of his sight again.

She turns her face toward his and he leans back, just far enough to find her mouth. Her hands frame his face firmly, as though she’s unwilling to let him pull away from her kiss, but it’s a wasted effort because he has no intention of going anywhere. He only wants this—her lips soft against his, her tongue stroking into his mouth, her body pressed against his like they aren’t in the middle of a crowded airport.

“Steve,” she breathes again when she finally pulls away, resting her forehead against his. “By the gods, I missed you.”

He leans forward, stealing another kiss, and then another, the kind of frantic desire that he would normally be embarrassed to display in public. She smiles against his lips and he knows it’s because she likes him this way, uninhibited and unconcerned with their surroundings or a potential audience, focused only on her and them and a kiss that has his blood running hot.

He swears softly when their lips part at last. “I missed you too,” he whispers, his nose bumping hers. “So much.” He leans back and finally looks into her eyes. He is grinning uncontrollably. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t wait,” she sighs, shaking her head. “I had to see you.”

And then they’re kissing again, smiling and laughing and nuzzling and Steve can barely breathe through the joy sitting in his chest.

Nearby, someone clears their throat loudly. Steve’s ready to ignore it, but Diana pulls away from him with a grin. “I’m sorry,” she says to whoever it is. She does not look sorry.

When Steve follows the direction of her gaze he sees Clark in a pair of black-rimmed glasses and a suit, standing next to an amused-looking redhead.

“No you’re not,” the amused redhead says.

“Not even a little,” Diana murmurs, leaning closer to Steve. “You are lucky I have not dragged him into that bathroom over there for a proper greeting.”

Steve feels his face flush at the words, and watches as a similar blush stains Clark’s cheeks. The redhead throws her head back and laughs. “Oh you were right, Clark,” she says, eyeing Diana appreciatively. “She _is_ happy.”

“Steve,” Diana says. “I’d like you to meet Lois Lane, star reporter for the Daily Planet.” She leans against him and puts her hand on his chest. “Lois, this is Captain Steve Trevor.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Steve says, holding out his hand. There is a twinge of nervousness deep in his belly, but he pushes it aside. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” Lois says, shaking his hand with an arched eyebrow.

“From Diana, yes,” Steve answers. “Terrible things from Clark, though.”

Clark smiles widely, and Lois laughs again. “I heard rumors you were charming,” she says.

“Never believe a rumor,” Steve replies with a smile. “I read your latest piece on the plane. The one about Senator Charles and his statements about net neutrality. I’m still pretty new to this whole internet thing, but it seems to me that we’re all a bunch of fools if we don’t heed your advice. I thought the analogy to the fall of Rome was particularly insightful.”

Lois’ eyebrows shoot upward, and Clark looks a little taken aback. When Steve glances at Diana, she is grinning at him.

“Charming _and_ smart,” Lois says.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Diana murmurs just before she kisses Steve again.

“They’re going to do this all night, aren’t they?” Lois asks Clark dryly.

Clark chuckles. “Probably.”

* * *

“Naked?” Lois says, her eyes wide.

“As the day I was born,” Steve confirms from across the table in a bustling and brightly lit restaurant. “Her mother had just finished interrogating me with the lasso. Which was incredibly painful, by the way.”

“Because you tried to lie,” Diana interjects pointedly.

“I didn’t know who you were,” Steve counters. “I’m a spy. That’s what I do. Anyway, these very, _very_ intimidating women who were armed to the teeth tossed me into this bathing cave and told me to bathe because I stank.”

“They did not say that,” Diana laughs.

“Totally did,” he disagrees. “ _Stink like a man_ were the exact words, I believe.”

“You _did_ smell like a man,” Diana says, smiling. “Very different than what we were used to. But it wasn’t meant to be an insult.” She tilts her head. “Well, I suppose it could have been. Depending on who said it.”

“Good different?” Clark wonders.

Diana shrugs. “Just different.”

“We can’t all smell like freshly picked flowers,” Steve teases.

Diana sips her wine around a smile.

“Anyway,” Steve continues, “I did as I was told because they were very scary, and even though their princess seemed pretty nice the queen didn’t seem to be a fan of mine.”

“Your mother didn’t like him?” Lois asks, glancing at Diana.

“I think she would have if she knew him,” Diana answers. “But his arrival brought death to our shores. My aunt died in the battle. And I think she knew I was going to leave with him even before she caught me in the act. I don’t imagine that losing her sister and her daughter in a matter of hours was very easy for her.”

Steve’s arm is slung around the back of Diana’s chair, and he strokes his hand over her shoulder in a silent apology. They’ve talked about this before—it is not his fault Antiope died, and Diana left her home of her own accord. But that doesn’t stop him from feeling guilty about it. Diana glances over at him, and then smoothes her hand along his knee underneath the table.

“She had valid reasons to dislike him,” Diana continues, her voice a little quieter. “But had she been given the chance to get to know him, she would have loved him. Of that, I am certain.” She smiles. “Even though he is a man.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” Clark jokes with a grin.

“So your plane crashed and Diana saved you,” Lois summarizes.

“Plucked him from the sea,” Diana clarifies with a wicked smirk.

“I hate when you say plucked,” Steve grumbles halfheartedly. “It makes me sound so helpless.”

“You _were_ helpless,” Diana points out matter-of-factly. “You were trapped and drowning.”

Steve grumbles again but does not disagree.

“And then after the skirmish with the Germans, her mother interrogated you with the lasso,” Lois says.

“Painfully,” Steve adds.

“Because you lied,” Diana repeats.

“And then you were taken to the bathing cave and that’s where you had your first real conversation with Diana. Naked.”

Steve grins. “Yeah. I did as I was told and bathed, and then right as I was getting out of the pool, in she walks. So I’m standing there, completely naked with nothing to hide behind and no towel, and she just _stares._ Didn’t even pretend to look away.”

“That’s true,” Diana confirms with a smile when Lois and Clark swing their gazes over to her.

“In her defense, she’d never seen a man before,” Steve says.

“I also liked what I saw,” Diana adds with a shrug.

Lois snorts out a laugh. Steve can feel his cheeks burning again, but he grins at Diana anyway. “I am above average.”

“You are,” she agrees. She looks across the table at Lois and Clark. “That’s what he told me when I asked if he was a typical example of his sex.”

“You didn’t,” Lois says to Steve.

“I did,” Steve replies.

“He’s always been very humble,” Diana teases.

“Hard to be when someone like you looks at me the way you do,” Steve returns.

Diana smiles widely at him, and Steve cannot resist the urge to lean forward and kiss her.

“I may need to suck on a lemon to counter all this sweetness,” Lois says dryly.

Diana smiles at the reporter. “You say that as if you and Clark do not also have a story. You should tell Steve how you met.”

“Please do,” Steve says.

Before Lois can open her mouth, Diana’s phone buzzes on the table. She glances at the screen. “That’s my assistant,” she says. She smiles at Lois and Clark. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” She plucks her phone off the table and gets to her feet. Then she bends down and kisses Steve, her hands on either side of his face. “Don’t go anywhere,” she murmurs.

He grins at her. “Yes ma’am.”

He watches her walk away, admiring the way her hips sway as she moves. When he looks back across the table, both Lois and Clark are smirking at him.

“What?” he asks, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. “I haven’t seen her in almost a month. You can’t blame me.”

“No one blames you,” Clark says kindly. “It’s just nice to see her so happy. I don’t think I—” He stops talking abruptly, and tilts his head as though he’s listening intently.

Lois glances over at Clark as soon as he goes silent. She watches him for a moment, and then brushes her hand over his arm. “Go.”

Clark is on his feet a moment later, and on his way toward the door without another word. Steve frowns after him.

“He heard something,” Lois explains quietly.

“Like what?” Steve asks.

The reporter shrugs. “Who knows. Sirens, maybe. An alarm. A cry for help. I’m sure he’ll tell us when he comes back if we don’t see it on the news first.”

Steve looks across the table at her. “Does he do that a lot?”

Lois lifts a shoulder. “Depends on the day.”

“Does it bother you?”

Lois leans her forearms on the table, mimicking Steve’s posture. “Would it bother you if Diana did it?”

“No,” he answers. “She _has_ done it.”

“And you didn’t feel abandoned?”

Steve frowns at the thought. “No. It’s who she is. I can’t be mad at her for being who she is.”

Lois smiles. “It’s who he is, too. And I feel the same way.” She leans back in her chair. “Though I’ll admit it can be disappointing on special occasions.”

“Like anniversaries?” Steve guesses.

“Yes. Exactly.”

Steve nods. “Yeah. I could see that.” He glances in the direction that both Diana and Clark disappeared to, and then back at their empty chairs. “Mere mortals waiting for the return of the gods they love,” he jokes.

Lois smiles. “From what I’ve heard, there is nothing _mere_ about you.”

Steve tilts his head. “The same could be said about you, I think.”

“Hm,” Lois hums in what Steve thinks is agreement. They survey each other from across the table, and Steve smiles at the thought that Lois Lane would have been one hell of a spy.

“Steve,” she says, leaning forward again.

“Lois,” he returns.

She fixes him with an intense stare, the kind that he thinks has probably been instrumental in helping her win all those journalism awards. “What Clark was going to say before he left was that he’s never seen Diana this happy. I haven’t either. So, from one mere mortal to another, I’d like to make a request.”

“Please do.”

“Don’t screw this up.”

Steve shakes his head. “I would never hurt her.”

“I know that,” Lois answers, waving her hand at him dismissively. “I meant don’t screw it up by dying again.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He grins. “I’ll do my best.”

“Do better than your best,” Lois commands, though not unkindly.

Steve nods. “Yes ma’am.”

* * *

Diana and Steve say goodbye to Lois and Clark in the lobby of the restaurant. Their hotel is only a few blocks away, but it’s pouring outside and none of them have an umbrella. Lois manages to hail two cabs in about thirty seconds flat, and Diana and Steve duck into theirs far drier than either of them expected to be.

Steve tells the cab driver the name of their hotel and then leans back against the seat, draping his arm around Diana. When he turns to look at her with an affectionate smile, her heart skips a beat in her chest. She lifts her hand and brushes it over his cheek.

“I missed that smile,” she tells him softly, her thumb tracing over his bottom lip.

“I missed everything about you.”

“Even the way I steal all the blankets?” she teases.

“Even that,” he laughs. “For someone who doesn’t feel temperatures, you’re awfully fond of cocooning in the middle of the night.”

She smiles. “I am sure I can think of a way to make it up to you.”

Steve glances toward the cab driver. He has been very affectionate since they reunited, but that was in the presence of Lois and Clark—who are also affectionate—and in the wide open spaces of the airport and the restaurant. Here, in the closed confines of a taxi where their driver has nothing to look at except them and the road, Steve has retreated back into his twentieth century reservations. Diana pities him a little, considering she’s about to kiss him soundly enough to make him forget his own name.

She has always believed in being present in the moment, though that does not mean she has always been good at it. As an immortal, she has lived many years and will live many more—when the years are as numerous as grains of sand on the beach, it’s easy to let the current moment slide by. Since Steve’s resurrection, she has found herself unable to continue with business as usual. She spent too long without him to take him for granted.

Now, after weeks without him by her side, she is basking in his presence even more than usual. She’s intensely aware of everything: The softness of his lips against hers, and the way he tastes of the chocolate mousse they shared for dessert and the peppermint he took from the hostess stand on the way out. The warmth of his right hand as it settles on her knee, and the way his left hand caresses the back of her neck softly enough to raise goosebumps on her skin.

When she pulls away at last, his breath hitches a little and she smiles. She likes to leave him breathless, and she has succeeded.

“Wow,” he whispers.

“Oh I wouldn’t say that just yet,” she murmurs. “Not with what I have planned for you.”

He curses softly, but any further conversation is halted by the cab coming to a stop. Steve pays quickly, and then they dash through the rain and into the hotel.

They checked in earlier so that they would not have to take their luggage to the restaurant, and Diana is thrilled that there’s nothing standing between them and their hotel bed except a short elevator ride. Steve presses the button for their floor and then turns toward her with a wicked smile. Diana is curling her fingers into the lapels of his jacket, preparing to leave him breathless once again despite the camera mounted on the wall, when someone else steps onto the elevator behind Steve.

A little old lady, to be exact. She’s carrying a bag and rolling a suitcase behind her, and when the suitcase gets stuck on the lip of the elevator the woman says softly, “Oh _dear._ ”

Both Diana and Steve turn toward the sound, and then Steve leaps into action.

“Here, let me help,” he says. He lifts the rolling suitcase onto the elevator with ease, and then smiles kindly. “What floor, ma’am?”

“Seven please,” the woman says.

Steve presses the correct button dutifully. The woman beams at the ring on Diana’s finger and then up at Diana. “Your husband is quite the gentleman,” she says.

“Yes he is,” Diana agrees, rather than explain that the ring is just a ring.

“Have you been married long?” the woman asks as the elevator starts to rise.

“Newlyweds,” Steve says without missing a beat, wrapping his arm around Diana’s waist. She thinks of the night not so long ago when she picked him up from the E.R. and they also pretended to be newlyweds. Steve liked it then, and he seems to like it now. She will have to ask him about it later.

“My wife is from Greece,” he continues. “We’re traveling the States for our honeymoon.”

“Oh how lovely,” the woman says. “Such a beautiful couple.”

“Oh, that’s all her,” Steve says, winking at Diana. “Like Aphrodite rising from the ocean.” The woman coos, and Diana shakes her head at Steve and purses her lips around a smirk. Elderly people are his favorite people to charm.

The elevator stops on the sixth floor, and Steve puts his hand on the small of Diana’s back and guides her forward. “Have a lovely evening, ma’am,” he says to the starry-eyed old woman looking at him like he is Zeus’ gift to the world.

“Enjoy your honeymoon!” the woman replies, waving enthusiastically.

As they walk down the hallway, Diana nudges Steve with her elbow. “Must you charm every elderly woman we cross paths with?”

“Are you jealous?”

“No.”

They stop in front of their door, and he slides the card key into the reader. He swings the door open and then grins at her. “Not even a little?”

“No.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.” He crosses the threshold of the room, his lips curled into a smirk. “Cause you know you’re my favorite old lady.”

“Old lady?” Diana repeats, stopping in the doorway with her eyebrows lifted.

Steve turns to face her, but continues to walk backward into their room. His eyes are sparkling with a dare, and she knows it’s because he is hoping she will follow him and then make him pay for the insult. Instead, she steps across the threshold and shuts the door behind her. She leans against it, her hand still on the knob and her back arched just a little, and gives him the same come-hither look she gave him a hundred years ago.

He stops dead in his tracks, just as she knew he would. His gaze drops and then lingers on her legs, and then her chest, and when he finally makes eye contact again she smirks. “Do I look old to you?” she asks.

He swallows hard, his throat bobbing, and shakes his head. “No.”

She lets her eyes rake suggestively over his body. It draws him toward her like a moth to the flame, and she tries not to smile. He is _so_ easy to seduce, and she would tell him so if it weren’t for the small fact that he has no problem successfully seducing her, either.

He reaches for her, his hands sliding over her hips and then up, stroking the outline of her body.

“Do I feel old?” she whispers.

“You feel good,” he answers, pinning her back against the door. “So good,” he breathes just before their lips meet.

She has other things to say. Questions to ask, and clever retorts to make, and maybe a well-aimed (though untrue) jab about how his beloved blond hair is starting to look a little gray. But the desire that has been thrumming in her veins since the airport is suddenly unbearable. Her arms are circling his neck, and her legs are wrapping around his waist, and his hands feel good and his mouth feels good and everything about this is so, so good.

Later, when she is naked and spent and draped over his chest, she brushes her lips over his sweat-slicked skin and murmurs, “Still think I’m old?”

She feels the laugh rumble through his chest, and for the first time in nineteen days she feels whole.

* * *

**Zero days separated**

When the sun rises, Diana wakes. She shifts in the bed, arching her back a little to stretch.

Steve’s arms tighten around her, pulling her backward and against his chest. “Stay in bed with me,” he whispers into the back of her neck.

It’s Friday. They have plans with Clark and Lois later, but the two reporters are probably getting ready for work right now. Diana should call Sophie and see how things are going at the office. Steve has some homework to do, like reading up on Kryptonite and visiting the crash site.

Steve’s hand brushes lazily over her hip. “Please?” he murmurs into her skin.

She thinks of their first morning together in this century, when she had promised him that someday they would spend the whole day in bed together. She thinks, too, of all the mornings over the past month when she had wished desperately that she was wrapped in his arms the way she is right now.

She rolls over to face him, and nuzzles into the hollow of his throat. “Okay.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

His hand slides more purposefully over her body. “All day?” he asks hopefully.

She smiles and lifts her mouth to his. “All day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you, like me and Steve, are what Vic would call "pathetic" and are curious about what is on Steve's playlist for Diana, you can find the list below. (I like to think it's an open playlist though, and that Steve adds new songs whenever he finds them.) Also, thank you again for all your comments. Y'all are so kind.
> 
> Come Rain or Come Shine - Ray Charles  
> Angel - Jack Johnson  
> Smooth - Florida Georgia Line  
> Better Man - James Morrison  
> Out of My League - Stephen Speaks  
> Don't Let Me Let You Go - Jamie Lawson  
> Perfect - Ed Sheeran  
> Sway - Dan + Shay  
> These Arms of Mine - Otis Redding  
> Losing Sleep - Chris Young  
> The Way You Look Tonight - Tony Bennett  
> Hold You in My Arms - Ray LaMontagne  
> Nothing Can Change This Love - Sam Cooke  
> Can't Help Falling in Love - Haley Reinhart  
> Nothing Really Matters - Mr. Probz  
> Make You Feel My Love - Adele


	5. Family

One weekend in August, it rains nonstop.

It starts on Friday morning. Diana gets a text from Steve around ten o’clock that says, _Rain rain go away._

She smiles and texts him back. _I think you prayed for it._

_No way! I can’t think of a better way to spend a Friday night than watching an outdoor performance of Shakespeare._

_Liar,_ she replies.

He sends her a smiling emoji.

She gets another text around one o’clock, a screenshot of the weather radar map. _Doesn’t look promising, angel._

_We’ll see,_ she texts back.

At four o’clock, Diana gets an email. _Tonight’s production of Much Ado About Nothing has been cancelled due to inclement weather. Your tickets may be refunded or exchanged for a show time on an alternative date. We apologize for any inconvenience._

_Your prayers have been answered,_ she texts Steve. _The show was cancelled._

He calls her a few minutes later.

“Hi,” she answers, sitting back in her chair.

“I really am sorry,” he says on the other end of the line. “I know you wanted to see it.”

“We can see it another time,” she answers. “The tickets can be exchanged.”

“Is there something else you want to do instead?”

Diana glances at her desk, which is covered in binders and folders, and her computer screen, which is filled with multiple tabs for Excel and Word. She spent the day up to her elbows in contracts and agreements, and she’s tired.

“No,” she sighs. “It’s been a long day.”

“We’ll stay in then,” Steve says, his voice dipping low.

“Okay,” she agrees.

* * *

When Diana steps through their apartment door, she is soaked. She had an umbrella but it didn’t matter—the steady rain of the day has turned into a torrential downpour, and the sidewalks and streets are covered in puddles that look more like ponds. She gave up trying to stay dry about a minute after she left the Louvre.

She shakes out her umbrella and sets it next to the door, and then steps out of her very wet Manolo Blahniks. When she looks up into the apartment she sees Steve sitting on the couch, watching her with a smile.

“Get wet coming home?” he asks, his voice kind but his eyes playful.

She sighs at him. “This is a rain of biblical proportions,” she mutters almost grumpily, gesturing toward the open terrace doors.

Steve glances over his shoulder, and then back at her. “Yeah,” he agrees, still smiling.

She pads across the apartment and then collapses onto the couch and cuddles into his side. Her dress is wet. Her hair is wet, and probably cold. Steve doesn’t seem to mind. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her closer.

“Bad day?”

“I spent it reading contracts.”

“Ew.”

A comfortable silence passes. Diana traces a finger over Steve’s chest. “Sophie’s grandmother died. She got the call just before she left for the day.”

Steve holds her closer. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“We should go to the funeral.”

“Of course.”

Another silence follows. Diana knows she should take her wet dress off. Steve probably needs to change his clothes too, now that her wet hair and dress have soaked him through. But it’s kind of nice, sitting here with him in the stormy dimness of their apartment, the rain pelting the terrace outside and his hands stroking over her back. It’s not what she thought she’d be doing tonight, but it’s hard to complain when she’s with him.

She glances up at the TV, and notices what’s on the screen. She picks her head up off his chest. “What’s that?” she asks, nodding toward the TV.

“ _Much Ado About Nothing,_ ” Steve answers. “I picked the one with the best reviews. Thought we could rent it if you want.”

It’s a sweet gesture, and she tells him so.

“It’s not a live performance in the park,” he counters. “But the couch is comfy.” His smile bends into a wicked grin. “Or we could watch it in bed.”

They haven’t had sex since last weekend, and Diana can already feel the anticipation starting to thrum between them. “I’m sure watching a movie is definitely what we’d end up doing if we got in bed right now,” she says with a smirk.

“I could behave,” he answers, feigning offense.

“Of course you could,” she replies. “But I probably wouldn’t.”

“That’s one of my favorite things about you,” he murmurs. He runs the tips of his fingers along the v-neck of her dress. “You know, we should probably get you out of these wet clothes. Just so you don’t catch a cold.”

“Very thoughtful of you to be so concerned with my well-being,” she tells him.

“Chivalry is not dead,” he answers, shaking his head in mock seriousness. “I am even willing to take this dress off _for_ you. That is how much of a gentleman I am.”

“Be still my heart,” Diana whispers just before she presses her lips to his.

* * *

Diana is admiring Steve.

He’s naked (she likes that) and ordering pizza (she likes that too) in French (she likes that as well). His French is almost flawless now, and she admires the way the words roll off his tongue with just as much appreciation as she admires the muscles of his back flexing as he leans over the edge of the bed.

“What?” he says into the phone. “Oh. Hm. No, it’s fine. I’ll pick it up. Yeah. Thanks.”

He hangs up the phone. Diana reaches out and caresses his back. “Steve?”

“Delivery guy called in sick,” he says, turning to look at her. “So I’ve got to go pick it up.”

He gets to his feet while she’s still processing his words. “Steve,” she says when it finally sinks in. She props herself up on her elbows. “It’s pouring out. We can just order from somewhere else.”

He pulls his boxers on. “But it’s Marcella’s. You love their pizza.”

“Yes, but not enough to send you out into the flood.”

He grins at her. “I’m sure I won’t melt.”

“You don’t need to do this,” she protests.

“You had a long day,” he says, pulling on a pair of jeans. “I want to.” He leans over the bed and presses his mouth to hers, a long and lingering kiss that makes her blood spark all over again. “Keep the bed warm,” he murmurs. “I’ll be back soon.”

He plucks his t-shirt up off the floor and is gone before she can protest again.

Diana sinks back onto the mattress and stares at the ceiling. She does not usually lounge in bed. Growing up on Themyscira did not lend itself to lounging, and by the time she left the island her aversion to idleness was just as deeply ingrained in her psyche as rising at dawn. She has, admittedly, become a little more lax since Steve’s return. Not lazy—Steve often teases her that she couldn’t be lazy if she tried. But she does spend far more time in bed now that she’s with him, and it’s not just because they have a lot of sex.

It’s pretty simple: Lounging in bed with him makes her happy. It’s the safety of their bedroom, maybe, or the intimacy of sharing sheets and pillows and space; maybe it’s the way that his voice is always softer regardless of what they’re talking about, a hypnotic hush that smoothes the jagged edges of the world away. Maybe it’s just that it reminds her of that night in Veld, her first time with a man and her first time with Steve and the first time in her life she thought _I don’t want to leave this bed._

He’s not here now, though, and she enjoys their bed far less when he’s not sharing it. She’s sure there is _something_ she could be doing, but she can’t think of anything. It’s a Friday night. There is quite literally _nothing_ she has to do. Her phone is not buzzing with alerts about disasters or danger or League-related business. There is nothing Louvre-related demanding her attention. The apartment is clean, and she’s in between books, and there is no need to make food when Steve is traipsing through the rain to pick up her favorite pizza.

She rolls over onto his pillow and sees his iPad sitting on the bedside table. She reaches for it, thinking she can peruse the news and maybe read Lois and Clark’s latest piece, but when the screen blinks to life she finds that there is an app open. It’s a game. It takes her a few seconds, but she figures out how to play it. She’s not one for video games, but it’s entertaining enough that she forgets that she has nothing to do.

The second after she beats his high score—absolutely, completely _demolishes_ it—she hears the front door open. She smiles. He’s going to pout about his video game dethroning for hours. She’ll have to make it up to him. She’s not mad about it.

“Diana?”

There is something in his voice—a little strain, perhaps, or maybe the hint of a request for help—that makes her get out of bed immediately. She steals a t-shirt from his drawer and pulls it on, and then breezes out into the living room with her eyebrows furrowed.

“What’s wrong?”

He is bent over the dining table, his back to her. The pizza box is sitting on the corner of the kitchen counter, forgotten.

“Steve,” she calls, and then she stops short at the sound of a soft, pathetic meow.

Steve turns to face her. There is a tiny ball of waterlogged black and white fur in his hands. Another meow echoes through the apartment, and the kitten in his grasp squirms wildly.

“Ow _shit,_ ” Steve says, transferring the wiggling kitten to one hand and surveying the scratches on the other. He frowns down at the animal. “I’m trying to _help_ you. Don’t scratch me.”

Diana crosses the room. “What happened?”

“He was sitting outside the restaurant,” Steve explains, glancing up at her. “Soaked to the bone, meowing like crazy, and I couldn’t just— _ow!_ ”

The kitten’s tiny claws have sunk straight into Steve’s hand, and he tries and fails to peel them free with a hiss of pain.

“Careful,” Diana warns.

“Ow,” he repeats, grimacing.

The kitten meows loudly at Steve, still hanging onto his hand for dear life. Diana reaches out and smoothes her fingers along the animal’s spine, then leans forward and murmurs, “Calm down, little one.”

The kitten goes immediately still. It lifts its head, blinking at her with wide, green eyes, and Diana smiles. “Hello,” she says, scratching a finger against its chest. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The cat mewls quietly, retracts its claws from Steve’s skin, and then nuzzles into Diana’s hand happily.

“For god’s sake,” Steve sighs, glancing up at the ceiling. “I suppose this is another one of your powers? Appeasing angry kittens?”

Diana smirks and holds her hands out. “May I?”

“Well he sure as hell doesn’t like me,” Steve grumbles.

Diana takes the kitten gently, and then cradles it against her chest. The kitten blinks up at her, and she smiles down at it. “You’re safe,” she says. “No one will hurt you here.”

The kitten meows softly.

“No one will hurt _you,_ ” Steve mutters. “Apparently you’re cool with hurting _me_ though.”

Diana glances up at him and sees that the scratches on his hand have started to bleed. “Oh, Steve,” she says.

“It’s fine,” he mumbles, turning to walk to the kitchen sink. “I’ve had worse.”

Diana strokes her hand over the cat’s fur. “You said you found him outside the restaurant?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, wincing as he puts his hand underneath the faucet. “Everybody just kept walking by, and he looked cold and wet and pathetic and I couldn’t just leave him there.” He looks up at her, and then narrows his eyes at the cat. “I should have. Little shit.”

“Oh hush,” Diana says, still petting the kitten. “He was scared, that’s all.” She frowns, and lifts the cat away from her chest for a quick peek. “And he is actually a she,” she says with a smirk, cradling the kitten against her chest again.

“Weird,” Steve says, turning the faucet off and reaching for a towel. “Most women find me irresistibly charming.”

Diana smiles at him. “Perhaps she does not like your lack of humility.”

Steve makes his way around the counter with a grin. “Good thing my girlfriend likes it.”

“Hm,” Diana murmurs noncommittally.

“You’re getting your shirt wet,” Steve says, stopping in front of her. He holds out the dish towel. Diana sets the kitten down on the dining table and then takes the towel from Steve. The kitten cowers down toward the table, surveying her surroundings with wide and frightened eyes, but she relaxes immediately when Diana begins to rub the towel over her little body.

“There,” Diana says, smiling at the animal. “All dry.”

The kitten pads across the table in her direction and meows softly. Diana swoops her up again, stroking the top of her head.

“Aren’t you sweet,” she murmurs.

“To _you,_ ” Steve points out. And then he frowns, and ducks his head toward her. “Oh my god,” he says, straightening again. “That little shit is purring.” He prods it with his index finger. “Hey. You.” The kitten blinks at him with a look of unimpressed superiority. “ _I’m_ the one who saved you, you know. You could show some gratitude.”

“She’s calm now,” Diana says, holding the kitten out. “Try to hold her again.”

Steve reaches out, but the moment the kitten realizes she is being transferred out of Diana’s grasp and into Steve’s, she meows frantically and tries to latch onto Diana’s skin.

Steve looks deeply offended. “Fine,” he huffs. “Didn’t want to hold you anyway.”

“Liar,” Diana teases.

* * *

Diana is folded into Steve’s side on the couch, sipping a glass of wine as they watch the kitten sniff her way across the fireplace. The now empty pizza box is spread across the coffee table, sitting next to a bottle of wine and three plates, one of which holds a few pieces of boiled chicken for the cat.

Steve is stroking his hand through Diana’s hair absently, and she decides that she’s so comfortable—so warm and relaxed and happy—that she just might purr herself.

She glances up at Steve, and sees him watching the cat with a bit of a frown. “Steve,” she murmurs.

He does not take his eyes off the cat. “Hm?”

“It’s not personal, you know.”

He looks over at her, and she watches his frown soften. He runs his hand through her hair again. “What’s not?”

“The cat,” she clarifies. “She’ll warm up to you.”

He glances back at the kitten, and then wrinkles his nose. “Who says I want her to warm up to me?”

Diana can’t help but smile. Steve notices.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, smiling as she sips her wine.

He narrows his eyes at her. “That look is not nothing.”

“I just think it’s sweet that you are so vexed by such a small creature.”

“I’m not vexed.”

“Yes you are. You are accustomed to being the charming, suave spy that no one can resist, and you’re not sure what to do when someone doesn’t like you.”

He looks incredulous. “It’s a _cat._ ”

“That _you_ saved,” she counters. “You did something gallant and kind that should have endeared her to you but she couldn’t care less. Meanwhile I did nothing, and yet she seems to prefer me. And that vexes you.”

“I’m not vexed,” he insists. “I don’t care that much.”

“Is that why you brought her back to our apartment to live with us rather than stopping at a shelter?” Diana asks pointedly, sipping her wine.

She’s got him there, and he mumbles under his breath and glowers at the cat in response. Then he turns toward Diana with lifted eyebrows. “Wait. You want her to live with us?”

“Is that not what you intended when you brought her here?”

“Well,” he says, glancing back at the cat. “I didn’t really...I mean, I just thought she shouldn’t be out in the storm if she didn’t have to be.”

“Gallant,” Diana teases.

He scowls at her briefly.

“You didn’t think about it at all?” she presses. “You didn’t imagine what my reaction might be? Or picture us sitting here just like this, drinking wine and watching her explore her new home?”

The tops of his cheeks go a little red, and Diana knows immediately that she’s right even without his confirmation. Something nags at her in the back of her mind, a parallel question and discussion that they’ve never actually had, but before it solidifies into something she can bring up, he turns to look at her.

“I thought that if you were with me, you’d pick her up,” he tells her. “So that’s what I did. And then I realized that once I brought her home to you, you’d get attached and we’d end up having a cat.”

He looks over at the kitten, who has leapt onto one of the bookcases and is sniffing a Henry James novel.

“And I think I’m right, judging by you guys’ little cuddle fest before dinner,” he adds.

Diana smirks at the faint note of envy in his voice. “Did going to a shelter even cross your mind?” she asks.

“No.”

“Why not?’

He shrugs. “Because I knew she’d make you happy.” He turns to look at her again, and this time there is a goofy smile pulling on his lips. “You have a thing for strays. And orphans. And anything or anyone that needs a home or a family.”

“I am rather predictable that way,” she acknowledges.

“I like it,” he murmurs. He strokes his hand through her hair again. “But I can take her to a shelter in the morning if you want.”

It’s Diana’s turn to glance over at the cat. As if on cue, the animal swivels her head and makes eye contact. She blinks slowly, and then goes back to sniffing the books.

“Do _you_ want to keep her?” Diana asks, turning back to Steve.

He smiles. “I asked you first.”

“Steve,” she admonishes.

“Diana,” he counters.

It’s clear that he is not planning to answer until she does. She finishes her wine and then sets the empty glass on the coffee table. “I have never had a pet.”

“Never?”

She shakes her head. “We didn’t have pets on Themyscira. At least not the way humans do. And in all my time in man’s world…” She shrugs. “I never felt the need.” She frowns when a memory surfaces. “There was a cat once,” she says. “When I lived in Argentina. He showed up on my back porch at sunrise and sunset.”

“Because you fed him?” Steve guesses.

“Yes. I called him Apollo, for obvious reasons, though I never tried to domesticate him. I don’t think he would have appreciated it.” She smiles sadly. “We were both a little wild.”

Steve arches an eyebrow. “I would _very_ much like to hear about your wild days.”

“There is nothing to tell,” she says, smoothing her hand along his knee. “It was a few years after I lost Etta. I had spent the prior years alone and grieving. I was lonely, and I wanted to forget that I was lonely. Buenos Aires made it easy. At least for a while.”

His lips find her temple, soft and insistent, and though he doesn’t say it she knows what he is thinking. _I’m sorry you were lonely. I’m sorry I wasn’t there._

“Did you have pets?” she asks him, squeezing his knee.

“I grew up on a farm,” he says with a chuckle. “My childhood was a petting zoo.” He weaves his fingers through hers on top of his knee. “But yeah, I had a dog. I took him everywhere.”

Diana looks up at him. His expression is distant and thoughtful.

“I always thought that if I made it out of the war, I’d get a dog,” he adds quietly.

“You never told me you wanted a dog,” Diana murmurs, surprised.  

He shrugs. “We don’t live a life that would allow for owning a dog. They need attention and exercise, both of which take time. Our work with the League is unpredictable. Sometimes we leave at a moment’s notice, sometimes we’re gone for days. It wouldn’t be fair.”

There is another nagging thought in the back of Diana’s mind. Again, she tries to focus on it. Again, she is stopped short.

“Cats aren’t like that though,” Steve tells her, meeting her gaze. He smiles and tips his head toward the kitten. “She probably wouldn’t care if we were gone for a week.”

“She wouldn’t care if _you_ were gone for a week,” Diana teases.

He puts his hand over his heart. “So hurtful.”

She leans forward and kisses him. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

“Seems to be the theme of the night,” he says, pulling her onto his lap.

Diana drapes her arms around his shoulders. “Seems to be the theme of our relationship,” she amends.

“Are you complaining?”

“No.” She threads her fingers through his hair and then smiles. “Just making an observation. We are a physically affectionate couple. We communicate our love through touch.”

He dips his hand beneath the hem of her shirt and strokes his fingers along the curve of her lower back. “Well if we’re making observations, I would like to note for the record that I like when we stay in on Friday nights.”

“Because?” she prompts, arching an eyebrow.

“Because I like to _communicate_ with you. Especially when we haven’t _communicated_ all week.”

“Like I said,” she murmurs, running her fingers along his clavicle. “Physically affectionate couple.”

He smiles, and then his gaze darts away from hers and fixates on something over her shoulder. He does not look away, and his smile fades. Diana frowns and glances over her shoulder. There’s nothing there.

“Steve?” she asks, turning back to him.

“She’s watching us,” he whispers.

Diana looks over her shoulder again, and realizes that he must be referring to the kitten, who has taken up residence on a shelf and is watching them intently. Diana turns back to Steve and smirks.

“Guess she’ll get dinner _and_ a show then,” she says, smiling, but when she leans forward to kiss him he turns his face away and her lips brush against his cheek instead.

For a moment, Diana is too stunned to do anything. Steve has _never_ turned away from a kiss. She leans back in his lap. The shock must be written on her face, because he looks sheepish.

“Diana,” he says pleadingly.

“What?”

“She’s still a baby,” he says, gesturing at the cat. “We can’t just…” He must realize how absurd he sounds, because he huffs out a sigh and changes course. “I mean, if she’s going to stare at us like that all night then…”

He trails off as though he’s hoping she will interject, but she just stares at him with her eyebrows lifted. His expression morphs into the same look he gets when she is angry with him and he doesn’t want her to be. He sighs and mutters, “Fuck.”

“That’s what I was hoping,” she remarks dryly.

“Diana!”

He looks so scandalized that Diana isn’t sure if she should laugh or roll her eyes. “What are you going to do, Steve?” she asks him. “Never make love to me again just in case she is watching?”

He seems to find the suggestion appalling. His eyebrows gather thoughtfully, and then he sets his jaw. “I’ll take her to a shelter tomorrow morning.”

Diana rolls her eyes. “You are _not_ taking her to a shelter because you’re afraid to have sex with me when she’s in the apartment.”

“I’m not afraid,” he says defensively. He frowns. “Wait, does that mean you want to keep her?”

“Yes I want to keep her. I also want you to take my clothes off. Now, please.”

Steve looks genuinely torn between her request and his belief that they shouldn’t scandalize their new pet—he is frozen in place, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes darting back and forth between her and the cat.

Diana sighs. “By the gods, Steve,” she says in exasperation, getting up off his lap.

“Wait,” he croaks, grasping at her hand. “Where are you going?”

“To the bedroom,” Diana says, pulling her hand from his and continuing toward their room. “I would like for you to join me, but I certainly don’t need you to.”

“Wait,” Steve repeats, leaping to his feet. “I want to, I swear! I just…” He stops dead in his tracks. “Can we shut the door?”

“No.”

“Angel,” he whines, drawing out the word.

“Don’t you _angel_ me,” she shoots back. She stops in the archway of the hall and gives him a look over her shoulder. “Are you coming? Or will I be the only one doing that tonight?”

Steve makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and nearly falls on his face in his haste to scramble after her.

* * *

“We should probably name the cat if we’re going to keep her,” Steve announces over breakfast the next morning.

“Chastity?” Diana suggests, trying and failing not to grin into her pancakes.

“Hilarious,” Steve deadpans, but there is amusement in his eyes. “You named your other cat Apollo, right?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t Apollo have a sister?”

“Yes. Artemis. Goddess of the hunt and wild animals.”

“That’s fitting.”

“In some circles she was also the goddess of virginity,” Diana observes innocently.

Steve gives her a look over the rim of his coffee mug.   

“What? It was your suggestion.”

“Aphrodite?” Steve offers, ignoring her. “Hera?”

Diana crinkles her nose. “I would rather not name our cat after one of my relatives.”

Steve frowns. “But Apollo was one of your relatives.”

“Yes, but Apollo the cat never watched me do the things that you and I did last night.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs heavily. “You are the _worst,_ ” he mutters.

“I have always found Egyptian mythology fascinating,” Diana replies, taking pity on him. “Perhaps one of their gods or goddesses?”

He looks up at her. “Like who?”

She lifts a shoulder. “Bast was a goddess whose symbol was the cat.”

“Sounds too much like a curse word,” Steve says, shaking his head. “Any other names?”

“Ra. Horus. Osiris. Tefnut.”

It’s Steve’s turn to crinkle his nose. “You want to name our cat Tefnut?”

“No,” Diana laughs. “Perhaps we should steer clear of mythology.”

“What about pop culture?”

Diana arches an eyebrow at him. “If you’re about to suggest that we name our cat Taylor Swift—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he cuts her off. “You can’t name a cat Taylor Swift. We’d just call her Taylor. Or Swift.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Wonder cat?”

“I don’t think so.”

Further discussion is stopped by the kitten in question, who leaps onto the table between them. She looks back and forth between them and then lets out a soft meow.

“Hey,” Steve says, reaching out his hand.

The kitten shrinks away from him, and then pads across the table and rubs her face against Diana’s forearm and starts to purr.

“Spawn of Satan,” Steve suggests grumpily.

Diana smiles. “You are still taking it personally.”

“Hard not to,” he mutters.

Diana’s phone buzzes on the table, and she glances down to see a news alert. She sets her fork down immediately.

“What is it?” Steve asks.

“Train derailment in London,” she answers. “A very bad one, by the look of it.”

“Go,” he says.

Diana leaves her pancakes and her tea and heads for the bedroom to change, but not before she bends down and plants a kiss on the top of Steve’s head. “Be nice to the cat,” she murmurs.

“Maybe you should tell _her_ that,” he mutters sullenly.

* * *

After spending the morning in London, Diana returns to Paris to find that it’s still raining. That suits her just fine—the train derailment wasn’t pretty, and all she wants to do is take a hot shower and curl up on the couch with Steve.

They spend the afternoon watching _Game of Thrones._ Diana likes to tease Steve that he has a crush on Daenerys, so she is only a little surprised when Steve pauses the show and says, “What if we name the cat Khaleesi?”

Diana lifts her head from his chest and smiles. “You don’t want to name her Dany?”

He smirks at her. “I wasn’t thinking of the character. I was thinking about the meaning. Cause it means _queen,_ right?”

“I believe so, yes.” Diana casts a glance over at the cat, who is curled up on a blanket on one of the leather armchairs. “You don’t think it’s a bit of a mouthful?”

“We could call her Leesi for short.”

When Diana turns to look at him again, she finds that he is smiling at her instead of at the cat. He brushes his hand over her cheek.

“You’re a warrior princess,” he tells her. “Seems logical that you’d name your cat after a warrior queen.”

“ _My_ cat?” Diana says. “When did she become my cat?”

“Well I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to be _my_ cat,” he says, gesturing at the soundly sleeping animal. “She hates me.”

“She does not.”

“She does too. I haven’t been this despised since I got caught kissing the pastor’s daughter in the broom closet during prayer.”

His cheeks go immediately red, and Diana grins at him. “You scoundrel,” she teases.

“It was her idea!” he insists.

“Mhmm,” she says. “I think I’ve heard that before.”

He, unsurprisingly, knows exactly what she’s referring to. “Hey, come on,” he whines. “That _was_ your idea.”

“And _you_ were an eager and willing participant.”

He smirks. “Pretty sure 99 percent of the population would’ve been eager and willing to do that with you if you’d asked.”

“And the other one percent?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Coma patients,” he says with a shrug.

Diana can’t help it—she laughs. She presses a brief kiss to his grinning lips, and then settles back down onto his chest. “How about we refer to her as _our_ cat from now on?” she suggests.

“Okay,” Steve agrees, pressing play on the remote. “But she definitely likes her mom more than she likes her dad.”

* * *

Later, when Diana looks back and tries to pinpoint the exact moment she started to wonder whether their life is everything Steve wants it to be, she comes back to that moment on the couch.

_But she definitely likes her mom more than she likes her dad._

It’s not like it’s the first time she’s been called _mom._ Barry calls her that often, usually after she has chastised the members of the League for acting childish when they need to focus. But it is the first time she’s ever heard Steve call her that, and it’s definitely the first time the reference has been made to her and Steve being parents together.

They’ve never talked about having kids. She thinks normal couples have probably talked about kids by the time they hit the six month mark—which is the milestone they’re about a week away from hitting the night that Leesi shows up—but they’re not normal. They’ve never been normal. Their relationship didn’t start with stolen glances or casual flirting or an invite to dinner. It started when an American spy crash landed on a mystical island filled with fierce female warriors and then absconded with their princess, who just so happened to be the daughter of Zeus _and_ a hero destined to kill gods.

Not exactly the kind of answer you expect to hear when someone asks, _So how’d you two meet?_

They fell in love in the middle of a war. Diana has fought in enough battles to know that it is not uncommon for soldiers to fall in love. She and Steve were not an outlier. But their official romantic relationship—well, that didn’t start during the war. That started after her superpowered friend traveled back in time to pull Steve off an exploding plane and bring him back to the underground lair of another friend who— _awkward_ —had made love to Diana twice the night before.

Not really the kind of start that other people would call “normal.”

Their relationship has not progressed at a normal pace either. Within forty-eight hours of Steve’s return they had traded _I love you_ s and promised each other an eternity. They have lived together ever since. Yes, they’re currently in the middle of a year where he is supposed to be carefully considering the pros and cons of immortality before he chooses it. But Diana is no fool. They have been headed for forever since the moment they were reunited.

Again, not really normal.

Diana has never cared about normal. In man’s world being normal is being human, and she is not human. She didn’t grow up wishing for what human girls are taught to wish for. She has never dreamed of a white dress or a picket fence or children who smile and call her _mommy._ She loves weddings and she loves children, but that doesn’t mean she wants them for herself. She’s an Amazon. She was raised to want what Amazons want: peace, and justice, and the opportunity to use her gifts to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. When Steve was dead, she wished for him. Now she has him, and there is nothing else she wishes for. She already has it all.

It dawns on her slowly, over the course of their first week with Leesi, that because Steve is human, there may be things he wishes for that she does not.

On Sunday morning, they wander through the pet store hand-in-hand. Steve is jubilant and excited, turning his charm all the way up to explain to her why they absolutely must put a massive, ostentatious, ridiculously overpriced “kitty condo” in the spare bedroom of their apartment. When he wanders off to ask an employee if they have the condo in blue, a nearby woman leans toward Diana.  
“You’re lucky,” she says, smiling and nodding in the direction of Steve’s retreating figure.

Diana smiles. “He is very sweet,” she acknowledges.

“If he’s this excited about your cat, imagine how he’ll feel about your children,” the woman says gleefully. Her smile has turned almost conspiratorial, and Diana is so taken aback that she barely manages to murmur _thank you_ when the woman says _Enjoy your kitty condo!_

On Wednesday, Steve surprises her at work. It’s a gorgeous day outside, and he whisks her out of her office half an hour early to walk through the Jardin des Tuileries with ice cream. There is a couple taking wedding photos in one of the more picturesque parts of the park, and when Diana glances at Steve she thinks she sees a hint of longing in his eyes.

On Friday, Diana comes home from work to find Steve fast asleep on the couch after a long day of A.R.G.U.S. meetings. Leesi is asleep on his chest. Diana smiles, already imagining his look of pride when he realizes that their cat is finally warming up to him. Then she imagines a baby in place of the cat, and her heart constricts.

On Saturday, they go see the live performance of _Much Ado About Nothing_ that they were supposed to see the week before. It’s a lovely performance, and the weather is beautiful once again. Steve enjoys the show way more than either of them thought he was going to. Diana enjoys it less than she thought she would, mostly because every other word out of the characters’ mouths seems to be something about a wedding.

After the show, they eat dinner at a charming little restaurant on the river. Diana excuses herself for the restroom just before dessert, and when she returns she finds Steve with a small child in his lap. The child’s parents are standing nearby and laughing, and Steve is laughing, and the child—a little blonde who seems absolutely transfixed by the faces Steve is making at her—is giggling wildly.

The sight sends a shock straight through Diana’s heart. She suddenly remembers dancing with Steve in Veld and asking what people do when there is no war to fight. _They have breakfast,_ he told her. _And they love to wake up and read the paper or go to work. They get married and make some babies and grow old together._

Diana’s steps falter. She stops. She and Steve have eaten breakfast. They have read the paper. They have worked together and will continue to do so. But they are not married, and they do not have babies, and they will not grow old together.

With stunning clarity, she can still hear the longing in his voice when he answered her next question.

_What is it like?_

_I have no idea._

Steve looks away from the little girl and spots Diana standing, frozen, a few yards away from their table. His blue eyes light up at the sight of her. His smile widens, and her heart twists in her chest as she thinks, _Am I keeping him from finding out?_

“There she is,” Steve says to the young couple and their daughter.

They glance in Diana’s direction, and she smiles and makes her way toward them. She nods her head in a polite greeting toward the parents, and then turns her gaze down toward the child. “Hello,” she greets.

The little girl giggles shyly.

“This is Ella,” Steve tells Diana, grinning. He bends his head toward the little girl. “Ella, this is Diana. Isn’t she pretty?”

“Pretty,” the girl repeats dutifully around the thumb in her mouth.

“Ella and I are best friends,” Steve says, looking up at Diana in mock seriousness.

“Of course you are,” Diana replies.

Their waiter arrives with dessert.

“Come on El, let’s leave these nice people to their meal,” Ella’s father says, reaching down to pluck the little girl out of Steve’s lap. The child’s face immediately dissolves into disappointment. Steve’s does too, albeit briefly.

“She has a bit of a crush on your husband,” the mother says to Diana, looking at Steve fondly.

“She wouldn’t be the first,” Diana answers.

Everyone laughs. The family says their goodbyes, and then wanders toward the exit. Steve watches Ella, and waves when she looks back over her father’s shoulder. Diana watches Steve, and tries to remember if he has ever given her any indication that he wanted the life he described that night in Veld. She can think of nothing. They’ve never discussed marriage or children.

Well, that’s not entirely true. There was that one instance, a week after his return from his so-called Justice League Tour, when they got married.

Sort of.

It was a Saturday morning. She was sitting at the dining table, frowning at her laptop as she spoke on the phone in hushed German, and then in English, and then in French. Steve was on the couch, headphones in his ears and reading something Waller had sent to him, but Diana knew that he was keeping tabs on her growing frustration.

After her fourth phone call—that one in Portuguese—Steve crossed the room and settled into the chair next to hers. He fixed her with a curious look.

“What’s with the frown?”

She sighed as she pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I am working on giving you access to all my accounts and ownership rights to my properties. It is harder than I thought it would be.”

Steve hadn’t answered. When Diana looked over at him, he was staring at her with his mouth agape.

“What?” she asked him, confused.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, shaking his head.

“I want to.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I’m going to do it, Steve,” she told him firmly. “We are together. Everything I have is yours.”

He blinked at her. She watched him levelly, ready to fight him if she needed to. He must have understood that he wouldn’t win even if he tried to fight, because he didn’t try.

“Um,” he finally said, clearing his throat. “Okay then.”

She smiled at him and patted his knee.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked next.

She sighed. “The problem is that we are not married. Apparently the idea that a woman would do what I am trying to do outside the bounds of matrimony is both unheard of and cause for concern. I have been lectured three times already about the importance of prudence, and asked twice if I have a family member or friend who can make sure I am not being taken advantage of.”

“Hm,” Steve said. And then he shrugged. “Let’s get married, then.”

She looked over at him in surprise.

“I mean, not like Clark and Lois are going to,” he added quickly. “Just, you know, our own version. Vic could create a certificate and a record for us, right? You could sidestep the lectures and questions and just tell them you want to give your husband access. They’ll want proof, you send them the certificate, boom. Done. No more frowns.”

Diana studied him carefully. “That is a logical solution,” she admitted. She resisted the urge to add that it annoyed her to bow to societal norms just to spare herself some condescending lectures.

Steve seemed to recognize her annoyance even though she didn’t voice it. He grinned at her. “Even Wonder Woman has to pick her battles,” he told her softly.

She returned his smile. “I suppose since you are already fond of telling all the elderly women we meet that you are my husband, we might as well get the appropriate certificate.”

He reached for her left hand and rubbed his thumb across her fourth finger. “You wear rings on this finger. You look at me with complete and utter adoration, and I follow you around like a lost puppy.” She lifted her eyebrows at his description, but he was not deterred. “I don’t tell people we’re married, angel. They just assume.”

“You do not correct them,” she pointed out.

“Neither do you,” he countered with a smirk. He held her phone out to her. “Call Vic. Let’s get fake-hitched.”

She’d kissed him first, obviously. And then she’d called Vic, and they had a marriage certificate within an hour, and they hadn’t really talked about it again.

Now, she wishes they would have. She should have asked him if he wanted the real thing, and not just a pretend certificate for convenience. She should have asked him what _he_ wanted, instead of assuming it was the same thing she did.

After the check is paid and they are walking along the river, Diana searches for the words to bring up what she’s thinking. Steve beats her to it.

“You going to tell me what’s bothering you, or should I guess?” he asks.

She looks up at him in surprise, and finds that he is watching her with a hint of amusement. Her heart flutters in her chest. He gazes at her expectantly, and she chews her bottom lip and searches again for the words.

“Do you remember when you said you thought that if you made it through the war, you’d get a dog?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“What else did you want?”

His eyebrows gather in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what did you imagine your life would be like once the war was finished? What did you want it to be like?”

He considers her question. Their pace slows until they both stop at a carved stone railing. He rests his elbows on the stone and looks out over the river, and she watches him with bated breath.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, shrugging a little. “Mostly I just wanted some peace and quiet. Less explosions and gunshots.” He smirks at her. “And way less of Sameer and Charlie’s bickering.”

She tries to smile, but she’s too distracted to put much effort into it. “What else?” she presses.

He exhales and looks back out over the river. “To sleep in a real bed for more than a night. To sit down at a table and eat warm food off an actual plate. To take a walk without looking over my shoulder every three steps.”

He turns back toward her. He smiles and leans closer, his voice soft. “All of which I’ve gotten to do with you in the past week. So I’d say we’ve successfully reached dreams-come-true status.”

It’s sweet. But it doesn’t answer her question. “Is that enough?”

His smile fades. “What do you mean is it enough?” He turns toward her more fully, looking suddenly concerned. “Do you mean are _you_ enough?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Not me. I just meant…”

Diana sighs, annoyed with herself. Six months with this man—six wonderful, deliriously happy months—and she is _still_ terrible at communicating her fears and vulnerabilities. She should be better at this. She’s ashamed she’s not. She takes a deep breath and vows that she will be, starting now.

“When you think about our life together, is there anything that you want that we don’t have?” she asks. “Do you feel like something is missing? Or do you wish we were something else?”

“You’re talking in riddles, Diana,” he tells her gently.

“I’m not trying to,” she sighs. She turns away from him, angry with herself, and he catches her shoulders and turns her back. He lifts a hand and strokes it along her cheek, and she leans into his touch.

“Try again,” he murmurs.

She shakes her head. “I’m not human.”

“So?”

“I grew up on Themyscira. We had different traditions, different priorities. A different way of belonging to each other than what humans have. We didn’t have formalized, legally binding connections. We just had relationships. We had love.” She covers his hand with hers. “And I love you, Steve. So much.”

He nods. “I know.”

“That night in Veld, when I asked you what people do when there is no war, you said that they get married and make babies and grow old together. And the way you said it…”

She pulls his hand away from her face and holds it against her heart. “You grew up in this world. You’re part of this society and you value its traditions. And I want to honor that. I want you to be able to live the life you imagined. I can’t grow old with you, but if you want the other things…”

She lets the implication hang in the air. She watches his face carefully, searching for any kind of hesitation or relief or desire, and she is startled when he smiles.

“You know,” he says, stepping closer to her, “technically we’re already married.”

“Steve,” she says, letting just a hint of impatience creep into her voice. “You know what I mean. I don’t mean something we did for the sake of convenience. I mean an actual wedding. A ceremony with rings and our friends and a white dress. In a church, if you’d like. On a beach somewhere. At the courthouse. Whatever you want.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Diana, do you _want_ to get married?”

“I am not the only one in this relationship, Steve. I recognize that we come from different—”

“That’s not an answer,” he cuts her off gently.

She stops short and blinks at him.

He gazes at her steadily. “Do you want to get married?” he asks again.

“No,” she answers truthfully. “It isn’t my tradition. It doesn’t mean anything to me. But if it means something to you, and you want it, I will give it to you.”

For a moment, he says nothing. His eyebrows furrow again, and then he shakes his head the same way he does when he’s awed by something she’s able to do with her powers. He lifts his hands to her face and closes the distance between them, and just before their lips meet he whispers, “You beautiful angel.”

She does not understand his reaction, but she kisses him back anyway. There is nothing of desire in it—only familiarity and something deeper than affection, something that makes her shiver.

When he pulls away, she is breathless. He smiles at her, his blue eyes dazzling in the dimness. “I don’t want to get married either.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. We made our promises already, Diana. I don’t need a certificate or a ceremony to prove it.”

She believes him. He wouldn’t lie to her. “What about children?”

His face blanches a little. He opens his mouth to respond, but she thinks she already knows what he’s about to say.

“It’s different,” she interrupts. “I know that. I am not offering a child in the same way I offered to marry you. But I would like to know if it’s something you want.”

He takes a deep breath, and then exhales slowly. “You want the truth?”

“Always.”

He nods. He doesn’t answer right away. He seems to be searching for the right words.

“I saw a lot of dead kids during the war,” he says at last. He says it quietly, but matter-of-factly. Her heart aches in her chest.

“I watched some of them die,” he continues, looking down toward the ground. “There was nothing I could do. And I remember thinking, if I make it out of here and this war actually ends, I’ll get a dog. Maybe I’ll meet a nice girl and settle down. But I’ll never have kids. The world is too awful. Too dangerous.”

Diana studies him. He is not the first soldier she’s met who has said that. When you see the kinds of things that a soldier sees on the front, it’s hard to imagine bringing a child into the world. All you can think about is how the world will crush their innocence the same way it’s crushed yours.  

Steve meets her eyes, and his expression is hard. She runs the tips of her fingers along the jut of his jaw, and his face softens slightly. “The world is not much better now,” she whispers.

“No,” he agrees. “So nothing has changed for me.”

Diana thinks of the little girl at the restaurant, her blond ringlets and bright eyes and the way that Steve had smiled at her. “You love children though,” she murmurs. “That little girl tonight—she made you happy.”

“Yeah. But she wasn’t mine to protect. To _fail_ to protect. So she couldn’t…”

“Break your heart?” Diana offers when he does not finish.

He smiles sadly at her. “Yeah. Like I broke yours.”

She presses her forehead to his and closes her eyes against the rush of painful memories.

“You love kids too,” he says after a moment.

She leans back from him and nods. “Yes, I do.”

“But you’ve never mentioned wanting one of your own.”

“Because I don’t.”

A soft breeze blows across the river and lifts a few strands of her hair. Steve brushes them away from her eyes.

“I know now that it isn’t true,” Diana starts, “but I grew up hearing about how my mother wanted a child so badly that she sculpted me from clay. She told me that one day I might understand the desire, but that day has not come. I have never felt it as strongly as she did. There are other things I want instead.”

“Like what?”

“Peace. An end to war and needless suffering. I left my home to fight for it. Sometimes I have my doubts about whether it can actually be accomplished, but that does not change the fact that I want it. Badly.”

“If anyone could make it happen, you could,” he murmurs, pulling her closer.

“ _We_ could,” she amends.

For a moment they just stand there, breathing each other in. She loves moments like this—moments when they are out in the world but the world does not seem to exist because they are so wrapped up in each other.

“What if you did it?” Steve asks quietly. “What if you ended war and brought peace? What if the world didn’t need Wonder Woman anymore?”

“What if it was less cruel?” she counters. “What if you did not have to worry about protecting our children from all the things that still haunt you?”

They watch each other, their questions hanging heavily in the air between them.

“Maybe,” he answers at last.

She nods in agreement. “Maybe.”

* * *

The next morning, Diana studies Steve as he hunches over the Sunday crossword.

He frowns. He taps the end of his pen lightly against his teeth. He sips his coffee. He chews his toast slowly and scratches Leesi absently behind her ears after she hops lightly onto the dining table.

If he notices Diana watching him instead of reading the section of the paper that is spread before her, he does not acknowledge it. He does not ask for her help with the crossword either, though it has been previously established that she knows almost every answer and will gladly provide them if asked.

Leesi parades across the crossword, temporarily blocking Steve’s view, and he purses his lips and arches an eyebrow but does not scold her. She pads toward the end of the table, glances down at the floor and then up at Diana, and meows. Diana sweeps the cat into her lap and strokes her fur. Leesi settles contentedly into a ball and begins to purr as Diana sips her tea.

Steve’s answer to five across is wrong. Diana does not tell him. He pushes his plate toward her without looking up from the crossword, and she finishes his last slice of toast. A small smile tugs suddenly on the corner of his mouth, and he bends forward to write in the answer for seventeen down.

Diana watches him and imagines a little girl with her dark hair and his blue eyes, and the way that Steve would smile at her.

_Maybe,_ she thinks. _Maybe someday._

But for now, this is all the family she needs.


	6. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, this thing is long. Like, loooooong. No joke, I’m pretty sure it’s the same length as the first eight chapters of Resurrection combined. Sorry about that. I just figured if I was going to write about the role of truth in a relationship like Diana and Steve’s, I might as well explore a few different aspects of it.

Diana is running late.

She was meant to meet Steve twenty minutes ago. Instead, she has been glancing surreptitiously at her watch and trying not to be impatient with the elderly couple who are dear friends of (and generous donors to) the French president. They just _had_ to see the new exhibit, and it _had_ to be done via a private tour, and of _course_ no one but Diana herself was good enough to lead the tour. So, here she is: Late and slightly annoyed, talking about sculptures but thinking about her dinner plans.

She typically handles such tasks with more grace. It amuses her when powerful men like the French president request favors from Diana Prince rather than from Wonder Woman. She also likes having a captive audience; very few of her friends can listen to her discuss her work without their eyes glazing over. Steve, of course, tries very hard to care. But Diana knows his interest is rooted in pleasing her and not in the art itself. She doesn’t fault him for that. She’s bored to tears by his fascination with turbine jet engines, and he doesn’t hold that against her.

This time, though, Diana is running short on grace and patience. She has been looking forward to these dinner plans all week, and she _hates_ making Steve wait for her. Her only consolation is that he isn’t waiting alone—Lois and Clark are in town to cover some type of political summit, and the four of them made plans to have dinner together.

While the elderly couple stares in fascination at a sculpture, Diana fires off a text to Steve. _Tour running late. Be there ASAP._

_Take your time,_ he answers almost immediately.

Diana smiles despite herself.

Finally, _finally_ they reach the end of the exhibit. Diana thanks the couple for their attention (sincerely, though hurriedly) and then leaves them in the lobby. She dashes back to her office, grabs her things, and then does something that she rarely—almost never—does: She flies in her civilian clothes.

At flight altitude the September wind is cold, and it is not kind to her hair. When she lands in a nearby alley she brushes her fingers over her ponytail, straightens her blouse, and then hurries through the dark and toward the front of the restaurant.

“I’m meeting a group,” she says to the maitre’d once she gets inside. “The reservation should be under Trevor. I’m late, so I’m sure they’re already seated.”

“Unfortunately, we do not sit incomplete parties,” the maitre’d says, though not unkindly. “Your party is likely waiting for you.” He gestures toward the lobby of the restaurant.

Diana glances over her shoulder, but Steve is not amongst the crowds. Neither are Lois or Clark. Diana looks back at the man with an arched eyebrow.

“Perhaps they chose to wait in the park across the street?” he suggests apologetically. “It is a lovely evening and many of our patrons do so. Once you have found them, mademoiselle, I assure you that you will be seated immediately.”

Diana murmurs her thanks and turns away. She scans the crowd in the small lobby one last time, but does not see a familiar face. She pulls her phone out and calls Steve as she exits the restaurant. His phone rings repeatedly as she lingers by the restaurant’s outdoor seating, and then his voicemail picks up. _You’ve reached Steve Trevor. Leave a message._

Diana hangs up. She glances both ways, and then crosses the street and steps up onto the curb. She passes a group waiting for the bus, and a couple sharing a bench, but she does not see Steve. She wanders along the sidewalk and farther into the park, but still does not see him. She presses her thumb against the screen and lifts her phone back to her ear, pausing beneath the dull glow of a streetlamp. The phone rings and rings, and then Steve’s recorded voice murmurs in her ear once again. _You’ve reached Steve Trevor. Leave a message._

A gust of wind passes along the path. It’s chilly now that the sun is down, but Diana doesn’t think that’s why there are goosebumps suddenly rushing over her skin. Something is wrong. She can feel it.

She calls Lois. There is no answer except for Lois’ recorded voicemail. _This is Lois Lane. Please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as I can._ Diana hangs up with a gnawing sense of dread.

Steve always answers his phone unless he’s in an important A.R.G.U.S. meeting. But even when he’s in meetings, he answers if she calls him twice in a row. Lois’ failure to answer isn’t like her either, especially when they have scheduled plans. She hasn’t tried Clark, but that’s because Clark isn’t very good at keeping track of his phone—he’s usually too busy listening for other sorts of calls to be bothered with the ones that come through his cell phone.

_Something is wrong,_ she thinks again.

She can feel panic starting to push up into her throat. She swallows it down and finds Clark’s name in her contacts. Her thumb is hovering just above the number when an incoming call from Lois flashes across the screen.

“Lois,” Diana answers immediately, glancing around the park. “Where are you?”

There is a ragged breath on the other end of the line, and then Lois echoes, “Where are you?”

“I’m in the park across from the restaurant. Steve isn’t answering his phone. Where _are_ you?”

“In the park. Straight back, path on the right…”

Diana races forward with superhuman speed. Her heart is hammering in her chest as she scans the path. “Where’s St—”

The question dies on her lips when she finds Lois.

There is blood smeared across the front of the reporter’s white blouse and tan trench coat. It’s dark, nearly black, and there is a puddle of it at her feet, oozing toward the pointed toes of her boots.

“Whose blood is that?” Diana demands, lowering her phone from her ear. Her pulse is thundering in her ears, a loud and painful roar. She looks up at Lois, and notices for the first time that there are tears sitting in her friend’s eyes.

“Clark took him to the hospital,” Lois says, her voice breaking on the last word.

Diana shakes her head, unable to comprehend it all. “Steve?” she says. “Steve is…?”

And then she sees his wallet on the ground. She bought that wallet for him a couple weeks ago, at an outdoor market in Brussels during a weekend trip. It is sitting on the sidewalk next to the puddle of blood, the same violently dark blood that’s on Lois’ shirt and coat, and the truth of it all hits Diana like a freight train.

_Steve._

She rockets off the pavement and into the air. She lands outside the nearest hospital seconds later, just beyond the entrance for the emergency room. She has no idea if this is the right hospital, but she’s saved from further speculation by Clark, who walks through the sliding doors a moment later with his cape billowing behind him.

“Steve?” she asks when he stops before her.

“He was alive when I left him with the doctors,” Clark murmurs. “I was dealing with a fire in London. That’s why I wasn’t there. I haven’t talked to Lois yet, so I don’t know what happened—”

Diana doesn’t care what happened. She doesn’t care about anything except Steve, and so she pushes past Clark and into the hospital. She dodges a security guard who tries and fails to catch her arm, and hurries to the admit desk.

“Superman just brought a man in,” she says to the nurse in rapid French, leaning so far over the counter that the nurse tilts backward. “He’s my husband. I need to see him.”

The nurse looks over Diana’s shoulder and shakes her head, perhaps at the security guard. Diana doesn’t care enough to look. “He’s been taken up to surgery,” the nurse says gently. “I can take you to the waiting room—”

“I need to see him,” Diana cuts her off. All she can think about is how badly she needs to look at him, to touch him, to determine for herself how bad the damage is and how worried she should be. “Where is he?” she demands.

“Madame,” the nurse starts.

Diana thinks the tone is supposed to be soothing but all it does is enrage her. She feels something inside of her snap, and she turns away from the desk and decides that she will hunt through every operating room in this hospital until she finds Steve, nurses and security be damned. She wasn’t there for him before, during whatever happened in the park. She won’t be kept from him now.

Clark is there when she turns around, though he is no longer dressed as Superman. She runs right into his plaid-covered chest. She tries to take a step back but he closes his large hands around her shoulders and gives her a stern look.

“You have to wait,” he says gently.

“Move,” she warns, tensing her body to prepare for a fight.

“You can get past me if you want,” he continues, ignoring the tone of her voice. His hands loosen on her arms. “You can get past the nurse, and those locked doors, and the security guards. But what are you going to do when you find him, Di? What then?”

Diana stares at his chest and doesn’t say a word. He’s right. There’s nothing she can do now. Maybe if she hadn’t been so late. Maybe if she’d hurried the president’s donors through the exhibit, or just passed the responsibility off to someone else, maybe then Steve wouldn’t be—

“I can hear his heartbeat,” Clark whispers, interrupting her thoughts. “He’s still alive.”

Diana closes her eyes and lets the words wash over her. _He’s still alive. Still alive. Alive alive alive._

Now is not the time to panic. It is not the time to cause a scene. She is Diana of Themyscira. She can handle this. She _will_ handle this.

She takes a deep breath, and then turns back to the nurse with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. Her voice catches in her throat despite her attempt to keep it firm.

“No need for apologies,” the nurse says sincerely.

Diana hates the sympathetic tilt of the woman’s head. She smiles anyway. “You said there is a waiting room?”

“Yes. I can take you there if you’d like.”

“Yes, please.”

Diana turns back to Clark. He smiles at her. “I’ll get Lois and meet you back here.”

“Lois?” Diana repeats in confusion. And then, “ _Lois,_ ” she gasps, horrified by the realization that she left her friend, bloodied and shaken, alone in the park. “Gods, Clark, I’m—”

“It’s fine,” Clark cuts her off. “She was fine. I’ll go get her. We’ll meet you in the waiting room.”

* * *

Diana has barely taken her seat in the designated waiting room before a nurse approaches with a clipboard and a laundry list of questions about Steve’s medical history. She answers them all automatically, and then accepts the clipboard and sits down to answer even more.

When she’s finished, she hands the clipboard to another nurse and returns to her seat. The only other person in the room is a tall man sitting in the corner. He is folded in on himself, his body curled over his knees and his head buried in his hands. His right leg is moving up and down in a nervous bounce that’s reminiscent of Barry.

Diana glances at her watch, but has to look at the face twice before she registers the time. There are magazines sitting on a nearby table, an array of airbrushed celebrities grinning up from their glossy covers. She doesn’t care to read any of them. A custodian strolls by pushing a large trash can, and Diana watches him pass. There is a TV on the opposite wall, and she half-watches a report about the political summit and its global implications. She glances at her watch again.

It’s only been five minutes.

She bends forward to rest her elbows on her knees, closes her eyes, and presses her fingertips to her temples. The questions are pounding against her skull like a jackhammer. Is Steve still alive? Where was he injured? Was he shot? Stabbed? Was it a League-related attack? How is the surgery progressing? Are there complications? Does he need blood, or an organ, or a different doctor, maybe a specialist? Is there someone she should call? Something she should do? How long will this take?

There are no answers, only a faint ringing in her ears. She presses her fingers harder against her skin. How is she supposed to just sit here and _wait?_ She is a doer. She _does_ things. But here she is, sitting and doing nothing. _Nothing._

“Diana?”

Diana lifts her head to find Lois standing before her, looking very concerned. She isn’t wearing her bloodied clothes anymore, and Diana is glad—she doesn’t think she could bear the sight of Steve’s blood again. Clark is looming close behind his fiancee, compassion etched in the lines of his face.

“Lois,” Diana says. She gets to her feet and wraps her friend in a tight hug. “I’m sorry I left you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lois says into Diana’s shoulder. Diana leans back, and Lois give her a half-hearted smile. “You don’t need to apologize. I wasn’t in any danger.”

“Are you okay?” Diana asks, glancing down to do a quick once-over of the reporter’s body.

“I’m fine,” Lois says.

Diana casts a glance at Clark. He nods. Normally, such an exchange—Diana refusing to believe that Lois is fine without having it confirmed by Clark—would have resulted in an eye roll from Lois and a snicker from Steve. But Steve isn’t here, and Lois does not roll her eyes. Instead, she clasps Diana’s hands in hers and murmurs, “How is he?”

Diana’s throat tightens. “I don’t know. I’ve just been waiting.” She looks at Clark again.

“Heartbeat is still steady,” Clark murmurs.

“And if…” Diana cannot bring herself to finish the question sitting on the tip of her tongue. _If his heart stops, will you tell me?_

“I’ll tell you,” Clark answers anyway.

Diana presses her lips together.

“We should sit,” Lois says softly, tugging on Diana’s hand.

Diana sits, and Lois takes the seat next to her. They are still holding hands, and Diana has to remind herself not to squeeze tight enough to hurt her friend. Clark sits in one of the chairs opposite them.

“What happened?” Diana asks, turning toward Lois.

“We were walking through the park, waiting for you and Clark,” Lois answers quietly. She smiles a little. “We were debating which Hogwarts houses we think each of the members of the League belong to.”

Diana swallows around the sudden lump in her throat. Steve had just finished the last book in the _Harry Potter_ series last week. He’s been talking about it nonstop, and he’s found eager listeners in both Barry and Lois.

“And then this guy—I don’t know, it’s like he just appeared out of nowhere. He was waiting for us around the corner, I think. Or maybe he’d followed us.”

“If you were being followed Steve would have noticed,” Diana says immediately. She doesn’t mean to say it—it just comes out, one of those rare instances when she blurts out a thought instead of carefully considering it. Lois goes still.

Diana shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re right,” Lois says kindly. She squeezes Diana’s hand.

“What did the man want?” Diana asks.

“My purse, and Steve’s wallet. He had a gun. I think it was the first time he’d ever robbed anyone.”

Diana furrows her eyebrows.

“His hands were shaking,” Lois answers the unspoken question. “And his voice was too. He seemed more frightened than both of us.”

If Lois noticed that, then there’s no question that Steve noticed it too. Diana can imagine it as clearly as if she were there: A trembling, first-time mugger. Lois, nervous and scared but still remarkably composed. And Steve, with his big heart and brash habit of trying to defuse any potentially violent situation with charm.

Diana lets go of Lois’ hand and folds her arms over her chest, her hands suddenly clenched into fists. “Steve tried to talk him out of it,” she says. It is not a question, because she already knows that’s what happened.

“Yes,” Lois answers anyway.

“It didn’t work,” Diana says bitterly, thinking of all the blood.

“It almost did,” Lois says. She hesitates, glancing at Clark, and then she continues. “There was a loud noise, I don’t know from what, but it startled him. He shouted, and Steve tried to calm him down, but he pointed the gun at me.”

Across the aisle, Clark’s face is frozen in a look of desperation and rage. His hands are curled into fists the same way Diana’s are. If Lois has noticed her fiance’s reaction, she’s choosing not to acknowledge it.

“Steve jumped in front of me,” she says to Diana. “He reached for the gun and they fought and then it went off.”

The reporter closes her eyes briefly. “The man looked horrified. He even—god, Diana, he even said he was _sorry._ And then he turned and ran, and I screamed for Clark.”

Diana closes her eyes. It’s as if the mental picture is painted on the insides of her eyelids: Steve crumpled on the path and bleeding out. Lois on her knees next to him, her head thrown back toward the sky as she screams for Superman.

And where was she during all this? She is a goddess with remarkable powers. She could have taken the gun before the shot was even fired, or deflected the bullet, or just shoved Steve out of the way. But she didn’t do any of that because she wasn’t there. She was too busy smiling at the president’s political benefactors.  

She wades through the guilt and tries to focus on her breathing. _Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale._

“Where was Steve shot?” she asks after a moment.

“In the chest,” Lois answers, almost apologetic. And then she really does apologize. “Diana, I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry. Steve was trying to protect me, and if—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Diana starts, but Clark interrupts her.

“I should have been there, Lo. I shouldn’t have—”

“Enough,” Diana says.

Clark falls silent.

“This is the fault of the man with the gun,” she says decisively, looking between them. “Placing blame where it does not belong won’t help Steve.”

Both Clark and Lois bow their heads. Diana knows it’s hypocritical to chastise them for their guilt when hers is eating her alive. She doesn’t care. She stares at a spot on the floor and tries to focus on her breathing again. _Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale._

“What do you need?” Lois asks gently.

_I need Steve,_ Diana thinks.

But she shakes her head and says, “Nothing.”

* * *

An hour passes. There are no updates. Neither Clark nor Lois says a word. The silence gives Diana a headache.

_Inhale, exhale._

Another hour drags by. The air in the room tastes stale in her mouth and feels oppressive and hot against her skin. She wonders what shirt Steve was wearing, and thinks of the white shirt he is always wearing in her nightmares when a hole in his chest blossoms with blood.

_Inhale, exhale._

At some point, Lois’ stomach rumbles through the silence of the waiting room. Diana asks her softly to go to the hospital cafeteria with Clark to get some food. Lois’ eyes flash with a familiar stubbornness, and Diana knows it’s because her friend doesn’t want to leave her alone. She stares at the reporter patiently. A moment passes, and then Lois heeds her request without argument.

A few moments after Lois and Clark have gone, a tall doctor in blue scrubs enters the room.

Diana leaps to her feet, but the doctor isn’t there for her. He makes his way toward the man who is still curled in on himself in the corner of the room. Diana has a clear view of the man’s face as he listens to the news, and she watches as his expression transforms from hope to disbelief, and then plummets into despair.

She doesn’t know this man and she doesn’t know who he lost, but she feels the tears starting to well up behind her eyes anyway. She bows her head and closes her eyes and tries to drown out the sound of his sobs with a quietly murmured prayer to her gods.

She has had dozens of nightmares of losing Steve, but they never looked like this. They have always been dramatic and traumatic, something similar to the exploding plane that took him from her the first time. She has dreamed of him being gunned down by mercenaries, blown up by terrorists, and stabbed in the back by a rogue A.R.G.U.S. agent. There have been errant thoughts of long-gone enemies returning from the dead and exacting their revenge, and visions of still-unknown enemies taking aim.

But she never considered a first-time mugger with shaky hands. She thinks this might actually be worse than her nightmares because it’s just so damn unfair. Everything they’ve been through—the war and the century apart and learning how to let each other in—and _this_ is how she loses him? If she wasn’t trying so hard not to sob in unison with the broken man in the corner, she’d scream.

Eventually, the doctor leaves. The man follows a few minutes later, his cell phone pressed to his ear, and then Diana is alone. The silence builds around her, suffocating in its intensity. Her throat is dry. Her head is still pounding.

_Inhale, exhale._ _Inhale, exhale._

“Mrs. Trevor?”

Diana lifts her head. Legally, she is Steve’s wife. She had listed herself as such on the vast array of paperwork she filled out hours ago. But she is still slightly taken aback whenever people call her by his last name, and she can’t help but wonder if she’s about to be told she’s a widow.

There is a middle-aged woman standing before her in green scrubs and a pristine white lab coat. Her frizzy blond hair is pulled back haphazardly in a bun, and when Diana realizes that her eyes are blue, her heart nearly stops in her chest _._

“Yes,” she says, rising to her feet.

The doctor offers her hand. “I’m Doctor Hayes. I’m the surgeon who’s been operating on your husband.”

Diana shakes her hand robotically. “How is he?”

“He sustained a gunshot wound to the chest. The bullet missed his heart and his major arteries, but it did puncture his lung pretty severely.”

Diana has a brief, horrifying vision of Steve gasping for breath as he drowns in his own blood.

“Fortunately,” the doctor continues with a small smile, “Superman brought him here extremely fast. We were able to repair the damage to his lung, and he’s in recovery now.”

Hope flutters in Diana’s chest, but she stifles it. _Not yet._

The doctor smiles a little wider. “We’re going to monitor him for a few days, but it’s very likely that he’ll regain all normal functions.”

For a moment, all Diana can do is stand there and keep breathing. _Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale._ She knows she should feel relieved and overjoyed. Steve is alive, and his doctor says he’s probably going to be fine. But she hasn’t seen him yet, and she can’t—she needs to _see_ him. She needs to know for sure.

“When can I see him?” she asks, breathless.

“As soon as we move him out of recovery. I’ll have a nurse come get you when he’s ready.”

_More waiting,_ she thinks. She smiles politely anyway. “Thank you.”

* * *

Steve’s hospital room is small and bright and painfully clean.

Diana lingers in the doorway. Steve is sitting mostly upright in the bed, his head tipped back on the pillows and toward the ceiling, apparently fast asleep. There is a small tube under his nose, and an IV in his arm. She doesn’t want to wake him but she’s dying to touch him, to feel the thrum of his pulse beneath her fingers, and so she slips quietly into the room and makes her way toward him.

She stops next to the bed and lets her eyes roam over him. His hair is mussed, and the strands of gray that are scattered through the beard he’s been growing lately are glaringly obvious in the harsh light.

_I’m getting old,_ he’d announced a few days ago, peering at his beard in the bathroom mirror. _You get better with age,_ she told him with a smile. _Like fine wine._ He’d given her a disbelieving look and said, _I think I’ll shave._ She sidled closer and brushed her lips over his. _I’d rather you didn’t,_ she whispered. He hadn’t. 

She strokes the tips of her fingers lightly along the hair on his cheek, and then down to the pulsepoint on his neck. His pulse beats strongly against her fingers. His eyes flutter open, and somehow they’re even bluer than she remembers.

He smiles at her. “What’s with you and the beard?” he says, his voice scratchy from disuse. “You got a fetish you never told me about?”

It is the most Steve-like greeting she can imagine. He has scared her half to death with his latest brush with mortality and yet here he is, teasing her as if they’ve just finished making love. She wants to laugh but it catches in her throat, and it comes out sounding like a choked sob instead. Her vision swims suddenly, but even through her tears she can see the smile drop from his face as he gathers his eyebrows in concern.

“Diana…”

She shakes her head, and then leans down and presses her forehead against his. Her free hand finds his, and when she laces their fingers together he squeezes her hand tightly. She stays bent over him for a long time, reveling in the sound of his breathing as he strokes his thumb steadily along her skin.

Eventually she leans back, wiping quickly at her eyes and the wet trails on her cheeks. He looks up at her, still concerned, but she doesn’t acknowledge it. She should be the least of his worries.

“How do you feel?” she murmurs.

“High as a kite,” he answers dryly. “Although that didn’t make it any less horrific to hear that I could’ve drowned in my own blood.”

Diana winces and looks away from him.

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs.

She doesn’t answer.

His thumb trails over her skin again. “Diana.”

She lifts her eyes to meet his.

“I know it’s hard to...I mean, I can’t imagine how it feels to…” He sighs. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he finishes simply.

She brushes her hand over his cheek, and affection throbs in her chest when he tilts his head into her touch. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” she tells him.

“Don’t do that,” he says fiercely. He tries to straighten into a sitting position that isn’t supported by the bed, but pain shivers immediately across his face. He groans and falls back against the pillows.

“Steve,” she murmurs. She means for it to sound like a reprimand but it comes out sounding slightly panicked instead. “You need to take it easy—”

“Then quit blaming yourself,” he interrupts through gritted teeth. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Okay,” she says, running her hands over his shoulders in an attempt to soothe him. “Okay. Just breathe.”

He takes a deep breath and then lets it out, wincing through the entire process. Diana continues to stroke her hands over him until she feels his body relax. She bends toward him and presses her lips to his forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

“Only if you come closer.”

“I’m right here.”

“Closer.”

His hand fumbles along the bed. She glances down, and sees that he’s patting the spot next to him.

“No,” she says.

“Please?” he whines. He looks up at her, and the lucidity from a moment ago when he’d scolded her for her guilt is gone. He looks like a little boy, scared and hurting, and her heart can barely take it.

Steve must see it on her face, because he presses his advantage. “Please angel,” he begs.

She can’t tell him no, not after coming so close to losing him again. If she’s being honest with herself, she wants to be closer too.

“And then you’ll sleep?” she asks.

He nods earnestly.

She glances over her shoulder to check for an audience, but there is no one in sight. So she hovers up off of the floor and then lowers her body gently onto the very edge of the bed. She turns onto her side to face him, and he rests his head on the pillow next to hers. He smiles at her, affection clear in his eyes, and she finds herself smiling back despite the circumstances. She brushes her hand along his face.

“How was the tour?” he murmurs.

“Steve,” she says pointedly.  

He grins at her, and she wonders if its the same grin he used to give his mother when he got caught stealing cookies from the kitchen. “How was the tour?” he repeats.

She knows he will not stop asking until she answers. She also knows that art bores him, and that nobody is better qualified to lecture on the minute details of sculpture than she is.

“We spent a considerable amount of time with Aphrodite of Modesty,” she tells him.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“They were interested in the juxtaposition of modesty and sensuality. It was a relatively common theme of the time period and they’d heard about it before. The husband, in particular, knew quite a bit about some pieces he’d seen in New York.”

“Hm,” Steve says. His eyes are starting to flutter closed.

“So he helped me explain to his wife that the placement of Aphrodite’s hands was intentional,” she continues.

“Intentional,” Steve repeats in a low voice.

“By having the goddess cover certain parts of her body, the artist is drawing the observer's eye to those areas. It’s a contemplation of the female form. In our present day, though, I think it could spark a fascinating discussion of how patriarchal societies demand that women embody attributes that are traditionally considered to be antithetical.”

It doesn’t take anymore than that. Steve is asleep. His heart monitor is beeping steadily behind her. In the corner of the room, an air vent is humming softly. If she strains, though, she can hear him breathing.

She studies him—the slow rise and fall of his chest, the paleness of his skin—and feels her throat starting to constrict. Her eyes grow hot and her vision swims again. She fights it, but it’s too much.

The tears spill down her cheeks. She does not wipe them away, afraid that her movement will wake him. She focuses instead on keeping her breathing quiet.

_Inhale exhale._

* * *

When Steve finally comes home from the hospital, he steps through the front door of the apartment with a little more reverence than usual. The hospital was nice, and the various members of the League dropped in often to visit him. Between them and the revolving door of doctors and nurses, he rarely got bored. But it’s nice to finally be home with Diana.

Steve turns to look at her, but she brushes past him to set a few bags down on the dining table. Her shoulders are straight and set. There’s calculated ease in her movements, but Steve isn’t fooled. She’s anxious. Unsettled. She’s been this way ever since he woke up after surgery. It’s almost like she doesn’t actually believe that he’s okay—like she’s waiting for something to go wrong, or for another mugger to leap around a corner with a gun.

He wanted to talk to her about it in the hospital, but there was always someone around to interrupt. He’d promised himself he would bring it up as soon as they got home.

“Are you hungry?” Diana asks softly before he can.

“I could eat,” Steve answers, still watching her.

“You aren’t due for more pills for another hour, but it wouldn’t hurt you to eat twice,” she says. “I know you didn’t like the hospital food.”

She starts to pull medication bottles out of one of the bags. “This one isn’t until later,” she says, more to herself than to him. She sets the bottle down on the table and then picks up another one. “This one is in an hour. This one, is…” She squints at a third bottle. “Later. With the other one.”

She starts to unpack another bag, this one filled with some of the things she’d picked up at the pharmacy while filling his prescriptions. He moves toward her. “I can make you something,” she says. “Or we can order in. We could...”

She trails off when he slides his hands along her waist. Her spine is ramrod straight but he molds himself against her back anyway, drawing her as close as he can without putting too much pressure on the still-sore wound in his chest. She feels rigid in his arms. He remembers the way the tears spilled from her eyes when she first saw him in the hospital, and his heart aches for her.

“You don’t have to hold your breath anymore,” he whispers to her. “I’m okay.”

She doesn’t reply.

He pulls her closer, wound be damned, and presses a kiss against her neck. “We’re okay, Diana.”

She turns slowly in his arms. He studies her face, but her gaze is glued to the spot on his chest where there’s a healing bullet hole. He waits. She lifts her eyes to his, and then lifts her hands to frame his face. “This was too close,” she whispers with a small shake of her head.

He nods. “I know.”

“Steve…”

Her voice breaks. He wants to comfort her, but he can’t seem to find the words. He finds her lips instead. She kisses him back, her mouth gentle against his. He lets his kiss speak for itself, soft but insistent, and he feels her body start to relax in his arms.

He wants more. He wants to kiss every last one of her fears away. He wants to lead her back to their bedroom and make love to her until she forgets everything about the last few days. He wants to leave her breathless and too tired to do anything but fall asleep in his arms with his heartbeat pounding in her ear.

But he can’t. He has a still-healing lung, and physical activity—especially sex with a goddess—is strictly off limits.

She pulls back from his lips as though she can read his mind. He considers asking if he can take her to bed anyway, but he knows she won’t agree. She won’t want him to take any unnecessary chances.

She presses her forehead to his. He brushes his hand along the base of her spine and searches desperately for a way to make this easier for her. He comes up with nothing.

“I’m okay,” he promises her quietly. “We’re okay.”

* * *

Steve is not okay.

It starts with a nightmare on the same night he comes home from the hospital.

He dreams of the face of the mugger. He dreams of the man’s shaking hands, and of Lois sucking in a breath when the gun is turned on her. He dreams of the sound of the shot, and the immediate pain, and his last word before everything went black. _Diana._

And then, suddenly, he is standing in a cemetery. Diana is there. She is dressed all in black, and she is on her knees before a gravestone with his name on it. He kneels down next to her and sees the trails of tears on her face, but when he reaches out to wipe them away his hand goes right through her.

_You left me again,_ she murmurs.

_I’m sorry,_ he tells her.

_You left me,_ she repeats. She lifts her eyes from his gravestone to the others that are scattered through the cemetery. _They all left me._

He looks out across the cemetery and realizes that each of the graves bears a name he knows. Etta. Sameer. Lois. Barry.

Diana looks over at him. _If you become like me, they will leave you too._

He wakes with a start, gasping and horrified. His shortness of breath causes immediate pain, and he groans and clutches at his chest and wishes that he would’ve just handed over his wallet instead of trying to talk the mugger down.

Diana—the real Diana—is there. She presses pills into his palm, and then holds a glass of water to his lips. She sits on the arm of the recliner he’d been sleeping in (doctor’s orders for the first few nights) and strokes her hands over his shoulders. She pulls him close and whispers into his hair, “Breathe. You’re okay. Breathe.”

He curls into her, his cheek pressed against her chest, and waits for the moment to pass. Eventually, the pain starts to fade into a dull ache. He can hear Diana’s heart thumping in his ear, but it does not soothe him as much as he wants it to.

“What did you dream?” Diana whispers to him through the darkness.

Steve doesn’t know what to say. If it had just been a nightmare about his encounter with the mugger, he would tell her. She, more than anyone, understands the mind’s tendency to replay traumatic events. But that wasn’t all he saw. If he tells her that he dreamed of her dressed in black and weeping at his grave, she’ll feel responsible for his nightmares the same way he feels responsible for hers. She feels responsible enough for him already—he doesn’t want to add to her burden. And he certainly doesn’t want to tell her that his subconscious seems to have doubts about whether he’s strong enough to handle all the loss that comes with immortality.  

He promised himself a long time ago—on his very first night in the twenty-first century—that he would never lie to her. He has kept that promise so far. But this truth will hurt her, and she has been through enough over the past few days. He can’t bear to make it worse.

“I don’t remember,” he lies.

* * *

Steve lies a lot over the next few weeks.

The pain lingers stubbornly, and the doctors are worried about his lung re-collapsing, so Steve finds his normally active lifestyle severely restricted. No more long morning runs after Diana leaves for work. No more sparring matches with her or other members of the League. No more trips to the local boxing gym, or weight lifting, or laps in a nearby pool.

It’s not just exercise, either. He has to avoid long flights of stairs. He has to be careful carrying groceries or laundry baskets laden with clothes. He can’t walk with Diana for very long during their weekend wanderings without growing short of breath and having to sit down before the pain comes. He can feel his muscles atrophying. He _hates_ it.

But he doesn’t tell her. He doesn’t want her to worry.

Instead, he focuses on being the man he thinks she needs: Still healing, but upbeat. Playful and at peace. When she asks him how he feels, he never tells the truth. _Fine. Good. Better now that you’re here._ He laughs at his physical limitations when what he really wants to do is scream. He pretends that his injury is a blessing in disguise, a chance for him to finally relax and enjoy an extended vacation. He doesn’t tell her that he spends most of his days vacillating between seething and depressed. She deals with enough of the world’s darkness. She doesn’t need to deal with his, too.  

He tries to comfort himself by diving into his job. He catches up on all his paperwork. He reads all the non-urgent briefs that have been piling up in his inbox. He finally gets around to analyzing a stack of threat analyses and intel reports. He pinpoints a few places where the League could do some preemptive work, and gets to work designing the missions.

And then he realizes that he can’t go on any of them. He’s not medically cleared for fieldwork, and he can’t fly since sudden changes in air pressure make it more likely that his lung will collapse again. He has to watch Diana, fiercely gorgeous in her armor, launch off of their terrace to go on missions without him. He has to twiddle his thumbs and pace the apartment and hope that someone is watching her back. He has to read reports from other agents, substitutes sent in his place, and try not to scowl at how poorly they understand the dynamics of the team.

Every time Diana leaves, whether for the Louvre or the League, he kisses her goodbye and smiles. He broods the entire time she’s gone, but the moment she reappears he’s smiling and eager to talk to her. Sometimes he catches her studying him, looking for a sign of frustration or pain. He never gives her one.

But it’s there, boiling just beneath the surface. He has never felt so damn useless in his entire life. He can’t work out. He can’t do his job. He can’t even take Diana to bed, and he knows that she misses being with him just as much as he misses being with her. He’s angry that the doctors are being so conservative with his rehabilitation, and that his lung won’t heal faster. He’s angry that he doesn’t feel like a part of the League anymore.

And he’s tired. _So_ tired. The nightmares haven’t gone away. They’ve actually gotten worse. Now instead of gravestones with names, he has started to see the actual people. Etta stands before him, spouting off about the right to vote, and then promptly keels over dead. Then Sameer. Charlie. Chief. Bruce. Clark. Lois. Arthur. Vic.

Barry is always the last one. He slides to a stop in front of Steve, fast even in the dream, and grins excitedly. He opens his mouth, but Steve never gets to hear what he says—Barry collapses, dead atop the pile of other bodies, and Dream Diana looks at Steve from the other side of the pile and mutters ominously, _You will lose them all._

He wants desperately to tell his Diana about the dream. But he can’t seem to work up the courage. What would he say? That after watching how she—the strongest person he knows—has struggled to handle so much loss, he’s having doubts about his ability to handle it? His body is already weak. He doesn’t want to admit that his mind is, too. So he smiles instead. And laughs. And lies.

He thinks that once he gets the all-clear from the doctor, life will finally go back to normal. The dreams will go away and he won’t have to lie anymore. He starts counting down the days to his next doctor’s appointment. It’s scheduled for a Wednesday afternoon. If he’s cleared, he’ll hop on a plane the next morning and fly to the States with Diana because she’s been invited to be a guest speaker at Ohio State. She doesn’t usually accept invitations like that, but the chance to visit his home state was too appealing to pass up. They’ve been daydreaming about it for months.

The night before the appointment, the dream is worse than it’s ever been. It starts the same: There’s the mugger, and Lois, and then pain. There’s the cemetery, and Diana crying and wearing black. But then there is the parade of his friends’ deaths, and each one is bloodier than they’ve ever been. When Barry crumples into a pile of twisted limbs with bright red blood bubbling from his lips, Steve jolts awake with a howl of grief.

He shoots upward, gasping for breath, his eyes wide as he tries to locate the pile of bodies in the darkness. A hand closes around his shoulder without warning, and it startles him so badly that he leaps from the bed and scrambles to the far side of the room. He cowers against the wall, helpless against a blinding wave of tears that floods his eyes. It’s only when he turns around, nearly hyperventilating in horror, that he realizes the hand belonged to Diana.

The look on her face is like nothing he’s ever seen. She holds her hands up, her palms facing him in a non-threatening gesture. “It’s just me, Steve,” she whispers.

He sees the concern in her eyes, and hears the sorrow in her voice, and for the first time in weeks he can’t bring himself to pretend. He leans back against the wall, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, and whispers her name like a prayer.

She is across the room in a heartbeat, folding him into an embrace that is somehow both gentle and fierce. He wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her neck and cries. She strokes her hand along the back of his head and holds him for a long, long time.

Finally, they both lean back. Their eyes meet. Her gaze flits over his face. Her eyebrows are furrowed and her lips are pursed. He can tell she wants to ask him what he dreamed about. She doesn’t. Instead, she weaves her fingers through his and leads him back to the bed. They climb beneath the sheets and she folds herself into his side. He wraps his arm around her and pulls her even closer. She traces a pattern across his chest with her fingertips, soothing and steady, and he closes his eyes and tries to let it lull him back to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Diana lingers in the kitchen before work and agonizes over what to do.

Steve is not okay. She’s known that for a while now. He is a phenomenal liar and a gifted spy, but she’s the goddess of truth. She knew he was lying the first time he told her that he couldn’t remember what he dreamed. She has known every lie since then, too.  

She has not called his bluffs. They are in love, yes, and they are supposed to share each other’s burdens, but she will not force him to share what he doesn’t want to. She will not guilt him into talking about his feelings, nor will she pressure him into being vulnerable. That’s not love. Love is patient—if he needs time to sort through his feelings on his own before sharing them with her, she will give him time. Love is unselfish—the ache in her chest does not take precedence over the pain in his.

But she is deeply hurt by his determination to keep her at arm’s length. She wants to take care of him, and she doesn’t understand why he won’t let her. Is it ego? Is he just too proud to let her see him struggle? Is he ashamed that he’s been in so much physical pain, or that he has taken her place as the one who wakes screaming in the middle of the night? Or is it something else entirely?

The questions have nagged her endlessly. She has kept them to herself, because the only thing she wants more than their answers is to give him the space and time that he needs. But after last night, she’s starting to wonder if space and time are doing more damage than good.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the appearance of Steve himself, whose hair is still damp from his shower. His cheeks are flushed—he likes to take very, very hot showers—and his eyes are bright. _Too bright,_ she thinks. There are dark circles under his eyes.

“Morning,” he says when he gets to the kitchen. He presses a kiss to her cheek. “You want some breakfast?”

“No, thank you.”

She takes a sip of her tea, but it’s gone cold. She sets the mug down on the counter with a suppressed sigh. Steve lingers next to her. She can feel his gaze on her face, trying to read her, but she doesn’t look at him. His hand brushes over the base of her spine.

“Diana? You okay?”

She closes her eyes briefly. She can’t do this for another day. She just...she can’t.

She turns toward him and leans her hip against the counter, then folds her arms over her chest. “Are you?”

He gives her a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

“I’m worried about you.”

Something flashes in his eyes but disappears quickly. He smiles at her and shakes his head, reaching up to press his hand against her cheek. “Don’t worry about me, angel. I’m fine.”

She pulls his hand away from her face gently. “Please stop lying to me.”

The smile drops from his lips. He stares at her, clearly stunned. Diana stares right back. The silence rings in her ears. She isn’t sure she’s doing the right thing, but she can’t keep her concern to herself any longer. They can’t keep lying to each other. It will destroy them.

“I know you’re not fine,” she tells him. “You haven’t been since we came home from the hospital. I haven’t said anything because I thought you needed space, or time, or…I don’t know. Something I couldn’t give you.”

He lowers his gaze from hers. She leans toward him, desperate to touch him, but she feels like she can’t. “Steve,” she calls instead. He lifts his eyes back to hers. “I think you need to talk to someone.”

His eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“A.R.G.U.S. has doctors on staff. Professionals who understand trauma. You wouldn’t have to worry about divulging anything secret because they all have top level clearance—”

“No.”

“Clark then. Or Bruce. Vic. Somebody.”

“Diana—”

“The dreams are getting worse,” she cuts him off. “You’re barely sleeping. You’re scaring me.”

Something shivers across his expression, something that looks a lot like regret. “Diana,” he murmurs, curling his hands around her waist and pulling her close. “You have dreams like this all the time—”

“It’s not the same.”

Defiance flashes in his eyes. “How is it different?”

“I don’t lie to you about them.”

He looks as though she has just slapped him across the face.

“Did you really think I didn’t know?” she asks him softly. “I don’t need the lasso to recognize a lie. Not with you.”

He lets go of her waist and turns away from her. She misses the contact immediately, but she does not say so.

“It doesn’t have to be me,” she says to his back. The words ring false, and so she tries again. “I want it to be me. I want to be the one you talk to, Steve, but if I can’t be—if there are things that you don’t trust me with—”

“Trust you?” he repeats incredulously, turning to face her. “You think I don’t trust you?”

“What other explanation is there?” she asks, holding out her hands. “Whatever you’re dealing with, whatever you’re dreaming about, you’ve decided repeatedly that you don’t want to share it with me. And I could handle that if I knew you were talking to somebody else. But you’re not. Whatever’s going on with you, you’re keeping it locked up. And that’s not good for you, Steve. You can’t bottle everything up.”

“You keep things to yourself all the time, Diana.”

“Not from you. Never from you. I have answered every question you’ve ever asked me with the truth, even when it was hard. Even when it made me feel vulnerable and weak.”

“I don’t feel—” He stops abruptly. She wonders if it’s because he realizes it would be another lie. He runs his hand through his hair. “It’s not about me.”

“Then what is it about?”

She can see his hesitation to answer written plainly across his face, and it hurts her way more than she wants to admit. She presses her lips together and swallows the plea that’s on the tip of her tongue. It won’t do any good.

They are saved from the silence by the shrill ring of Steve’s cell phone on the kitchen counter. He glances at the screen, and sighs heavily.

“It’s Waller.” He looks up at her. “I’ll call her back.”

“No,” Diana says. “You should answer it. It could be important.”

He lifts his eyebrows in surprise.

“I have to go to work anyway,” she explains. She doesn’t, really. She could call off and spend the day here with him. But he doesn’t seem eager to talk to her, and she can’t bear the silence or any more lies.

She turns away from him and heads toward the door. Behind her, his phone rings again. When her hand falls on the door knob, he calls out after her.

The way he is looking at her when she turns around—by the gods, she can barely stand it. He wore the same expression that first night in the hospital, the look of a lost little boy who wants something desperately but isn’t sure how to get it. It takes all her willpower not to cross the room and wrap him in her arms.

“You’ll be at my doctor’s appointment?” he asks quietly.

She nods. “Yes.”

* * *

By the time Steve hangs up with Waller, he is furious. It wasn’t an emergency. It wasn’t even important. She just wanted to bawl him out for lack of detail on a recently submitted report—a report that _he_ didn’t even write. He let Diana walk out the door just so he could get yelled at for something that wasn’t even his fault, and he takes his anger out on Waller in spectacular fashion.

Afterward, he lays on the couch and stares grumpily at the ceiling. Leesi proceeds to walk all over him as though he is a cushion instead of a person, and Steve is so annoyed that he shoos her away. He glares at the ceiling once she’s gone, turning one word over in his mind like an accusation.

_Liar._

For weeks, he has comforted himself with justifications for his lies. He didn’t tell Diana when he was in pain because he didn’t want her to worry. He didn’t admit his frustrations with his physical limitations or his noticeably weakened body because he didn’t want to seem whiny or ungrateful. He didn’t confess that he felt disconnected from the League because he didn’t want her to feel sorry for him. He did not disclose the content of his dreams because he did not want her to feel responsible, or to worry about his commitment to spending forever with her. He wanted to protect her.

Instead, he hurt her worse than the truth ever could have.

He should have known better. In what universe is lying to the goddess of truth a good idea? What kind of selfish arrogance made him think that she wouldn’t see right through him? And who the hell did he think he was acting like Diana—goddess, warrior, Wonder Woman—needed _his_ protection?

Part of him is surprised that she hadn’t called him out the moment she recognized each lie. But then he remembers what she said. _I thought you needed space, or time, or…I don’t know. Something I couldn’t give you._

The worst part is that he doesn’t even think she’s angry. She has every right to be, but there was no irritation in her voice when she confronted him. No accusation, either. Just concern, and grief, and a hurt that roared in his ears despite the quietness of her voice.

He spends the rest of the morning scrawling notes on everything he wants to tell her. _I hate feeling weak. I didn’t want to be a burden. I was trying to make it easier for you. I was afraid you’d think I didn’t want to be immortal. I was scared you’d think less of me._

It’s stupid, maybe, that he feels the need to write it all down. But he doesn’t want to miss anything. He doesn’t want to keep anything from her ever again, no matter how ashamed or scared or angry it makes him feel.

_Liar._

He arrives early at the doctor’s office with the hope that Diana will be there early too. She isn’t. He’s the only one in the waiting room, so he doesn’t bother trying to hide his crumpled and messy apology manifesto. He reads it over and over again as the minutes tick by. First line: _I’m sorry._ Second line: _Truly sorry._ Bullet point list of all the things he lied about. Explanation of why he lied. Clarification that the explanation is not an excuse. Promise that he will never do it again. Declaration that he is ready to spend forever earning her trust back. Final plea: _Please forgive me._

His chest feels tight. It’s a pain reminiscent of what he felt the first few days after surgery, but he knows that this isn’t related to his lung. It’s psychological, not physical.

He realizes, suddenly, that in a little while the doctor will tell him whether he’s allowed to fly with Diana to Ohio. He already wanted to go. But now, with his dishonesty hanging in the air, he’s desperate for it. It’s a chance to get away—a chance to repent, to readjust, to reconnect. He needs that. _They_ need that.

The office door swings open, and Diana appears. Steve leaps to his feet, shoving his manifesto hastily into his back pocket.

“Hey,” he says, breathless. He wants to blame it on his lung, but he knows that isn’t the cause. Diana took his breath away long before the bullet did.

“Hi,” she says softly in return. She closes the door behind her.

Steve’s hands are sweaty. His heart is pounding. He’s suddenly and painfully nervous. He watches her cross the waiting room with his mouth slightly agape. He can’t help it. She’s beautiful.

She stops before him and leans forward to brush her lips across his cheek in greeting, one of her hands resting casually on the center of his chest. He freezes for a moment, surprised by the affection that he doesn’t deserve, and then his arms spasm to life and he wraps them immediately around her.

“Diana,” he breathes into her ear.

He is stopped short by a perky blonde nurse calling his name cheerfully from a doorway on the other side of the office. He sighs. Diana smiles a little at his sigh, and then tangles her fingers with his and leads him toward the door.

He thinks he might get another chance to talk to her once the nurse leaves them in the exam room, but the doctor appears barely ten seconds after the nurse has shut the door.

“Mr. and Mrs. Trevor,” the older man greets with a genial smile. “The appointment before yours cancelled, and it seems we’re a little ahead of schedule. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Diana says politely.

Steve doesn’t say anything because he isn’t sure he is.

As it turns out, he didn’t need to worry. It’s all good news. His progress is good—great, in fact—and other than a few final warnings, the doctor has no problem agreeing that Steve can fully resume all his normal activities, including flying. Diana looks relieved, and when she smiles at Steve his heart skips a beat.

When they step out of the building and onto the sidewalk, Steve catches her hand and tugs. She turns toward him, her eyebrows lifted, and he steps into her space purposefully.

“Do you have to go back to work?” he asks.

She nods. “I have some things to take care of before the trip.”

His heart sinks in disappointment. He starts to smile anyway, ready to hide it, but then he catches himself. If he’s disappointed about it, he should let her see. He should be honest.

Her gaze darts quickly over his face, reading his expression. “I can try to sneak away early,” she offers. “Once it’s all done. If you’d like.”

“Yeah,” he says earnestly. “I would.”

There are two faint lines between her eyebrows. It’s a look of guarded confusion—she wants to ask him something, but she seems unsure about whether she should. _Probably because she’s afraid you’ll lie to her,_ he thinks to himself bitterly.

He brushes his hand over her cheek. “I’d like to apologize. And explain. If you’ll let me.”

For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. She just watches him with the same guarded look on her face. He stands as still as he can and lets her study him.

He’s surprised when she leans forward and presses her lips against his.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” she whispers afterward.

* * *

When Diana gets home, she is greeted by a loudly meowing cat rubbing at her ankles and a nervous looking Steve standing in the living room.

She closes the door behind her and bends down to sweep the cat into her arms. “Your highness,” she greets, pressing a kiss to the top of the cat’s head. Leesi meows loudly and nuzzles Diana’s chin.

Diana looks up at Steve. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he greets. “Did you get everything finished?”

She nods. “Yes. Sophie is a gift from the gods, so there was less to do than I thought.”

“That’s good,” Steve says.

He runs his hand through his hair. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Diana can’t help but feel a surge of affection for him. She has always found him adorable when he’s nervous, even when she is angry and hurt like she is now.

She bends forward and sets the now purring cat onto the floor, and then makes her way across the room and toward Steve. She stops in front of him and gives him an expectant look.

To his credit, he does not attempt to beat around the bush or diffuse the tension with a joke. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Really, truly sorry.”

“For?”

“Lying to you. Repeatedly.”

He seems more determined now than nervous. Diana wants badly to touch him, but she knows better. They’re a physically affectionate couple. They communicate their feelings through touch. He will apologize by loving her, and she will forgive him by doing the same. They’ve done it before, after disagreements just as serious as the current one. They always talk afterward—their confessions and apologies and absolutions seem to come more easily when their bodies are tangled together. She doesn’t want that this time, though. She wants the truth first.

Leesi meows loudly and rubs along Diana’s ankles, apparently annoyed that Diana is paying attention to Steve instead of her. Diana ignores her.

“What did you lie about?” she asks Steve.

“Everything.” He slides his hands into his pockets. “Mostly it was lies by omission. I’ve been um…” He shifts from one foot to the other, nervous again. “Angry. About how long it’s taken my body to heal and how careful the doctors have been. And I’ve been frustrated too. I just...I couldn’t do anything, you know? I couldn’t work out, I couldn’t be with the League or go on missions.”

He lifts his chin almost defiantly and looks her in the eye. “I couldn’t take you to bed.”

“Steve—”

“I know,” he interrupts, holding up a hand. “You don’t have to say it. But you asked, and I didn’t want to leave anything out.”

She nods.

“I hated it,” he continues. “ _All_ of it. I couldn’t do anything, all the stuff that makes me who I am, and it made me feel weak and helpless and useless and that pissed me off.”

Again, Diana finds herself longing to touch him. Again, she resists.

“You don’t like feeling weak,” she observes instead.

“No,” he confirms with a humorless smile.

“Is that why you didn't tell me?” she asks. “Because you were ashamed of how you felt?”

He shakes his head. “No. Well, that’s not the _only_ reason. I was ashamed. Still am, I guess. But mostly I was just...I was trying to make it easier for you.”

Diana lifts her eyebrows in surprise. “For me?” she repeats.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When you came in my room at the hospital, you cried,” he explains softly. “I’ve only seen you cry once, Diana. Twice, maybe. And for days afterward you were just...it’s like you were holding your breath. Waiting for something else to go wrong. And I thought maybe if you knew I was okay, it would help. Maybe you could finally breathe again.”

Diana blinks at him, taken aback. She hadn’t even considered that he was doing it for her. He must misinterpret her expression, because he puts his hands on either side of her face and gives her a look so earnest that it takes her breath away.

“I’m not blaming you,” he murmurs. “I’m not saying you made me lie, okay? _I_ made that choice. I decided that it was more important to pretend everything was okay than to work through how I felt with you. I own that. I did it.”

“But…” she starts.

He waits, but she doesn’t finish. “But I wanted to protect you,” he says when she doesn’t. “You’ve lost so many people already. You’ve had to deal with so much pain. I couldn’t change the fact that I got shot, but I could manage the aftermath. I could try to make it as painless and worry-free for you as I could until it became just another memory.”

“But it wasn’t painless,” she tells him, shaking her head. “I _knew_ you were frustrated and angry. I _knew_ you felt like a burden. Having you lie to me about it just made things worse.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that this morning.” He gives her an apologetic smile. “I tried to make it better and I just made it worse. I fucked up, Diana. And I’m sorry.”

He moves closer to her, his hands finding her waist. Down on the floor, Leesi has finally gotten bored of asking for attention and being ignored. She wanders away.

“And the dreams?” Diana murmurs.

Steve’s body stiffens. “Another road to hell paved with good intentions,” he says vaguely.

It’s not a real answer, so Diana waits.

He takes a deep breath. “They’re all the same,” he starts. He’s staring at a spot on her shoulder instead of into her eyes. “I’m in the park with Lois. I get shot, and then I die. And then I wake up in a graveyard and you’re there, all dressed in black. You’re crying, and you tell me that I abandoned you.”

A flash of guilt races through her. She has never tried to hide from him just how afraid she is to lose him again. She’s _thought_ about hiding it, certainly. But she hasn’t, because she still remembers the conversation they had the morning after he first experienced one of her nightmares. He felt responsible for her fear. Guilty. She told him she didn’t want him to, and that his guilt made her want to hide things from him. He had begged her not to, and so she hadn’t.

Now the tables have turned, but Steve has not followed his own request. Instead of confessing it to her, he hid it—and she’s guessing it’s because he didn’t want her to feel guilty the way he often does.  

“The dream version of you isn’t like the real you,” Steve continues. “She tells me that if I become like you, everyone I love is going to leave me. And then they all do. And I have to watch. Etta and the guys and Barry and the League—they all stand in front of me and die horrible deaths one by one until I’m all alone.”

His voice has gotten steadily quieter, and he finishes in almost a whisper. Diana feels as though her heart has shattered into a million pieces. When Steve finally lifts his eyes to meet her gaze, his expression is equal parts apologetic and sad.

“Barry dies last,” he murmurs. “And it’s always the worst one.”

“Oh Steve,” Diana breathes. And then she wraps him in a hug, her throat so tight that she couldn’t say anything else even if she wanted to.

By the time they finally break apart, Diana has given up any pretense of not touching him. She strokes her hands over his shoulders and his face, desperate to comfort him somehow.

“I wanted to tell you,” he confesses in a whisper. “I wanted to tell you so bad.”

“You should have,” she murmurs back. She brushes her hand over his face. “Why didn’t you?”

“I thought you’d feel guilty.”

Diana finds no satisfaction in being right, but she’s unwilling to let his hypocrisy slide. “You asked me once not to hide things from you just because they might make you feel guilty,” she reminds him. “You said you wanted to deal with things together.”

“I know,” he says, closing his eyes in a brief wince. “I’m a hypocrite. But it wasn’t just about the guilt. It was what the dream meant.”

“You mean that you have doubts about becoming immortal?”

He grips her waist tighter. “Diana, I _want_ to be immortal. I want to be with you. Just because I’m afraid of how hard it will be to lose everyone doesn’t mean I don’t want it.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t seem to believe her, judging by the way he forges on with an increasingly desperate lilt to his voice. “I’d do it right now if I could. You know that, right? I would. Being scared of how hard it might be doesn’t change anything for me. I was scared to fly a plane, but I did it anyway. I was scared to fall in love with you, but you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I could lose all those people tomorrow, whether I’m immortal or not. I don’t want—”

“Steve,” she interrupts. “I _know._ ”

He stares at her, his mouth slightly agape. And that’s when she realizes what he’s not saying.

“You lied because you were afraid I would be disappointed by your doubts,” she says for him.

It’s not a question, but the guilt on his face is an answer.

“You know,” she murmurs, exasperated but also endeared by his concern, “for someone who once told me that I’m the only god you believe in, you seem to have very little faith in me.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“Come here,” she orders gently, pulling him toward the couch. “Sit down.”

He follows her lead, still looking completely flabbergasted. They sit down next to each other. She smoothes her hands over his knee and leans toward him. “Do you know why I asked you to wait a year before you decided to become immortal?”

“Because there was a lot we didn’t know about each other,” he repeats dutifully.

She nods. “Yes. And?”

He frowns. “And...I don’t know.”

“Humans like to talk about immortality as if it is the holy grail,” she tells him. “But what they don’t realize is that immortality is terrifying when everyone around you is mortal. Confronting death and loss and grief is hard enough in the decades that span a typical human life. But doing it over and over again forever? How could anyone with the capacity to love _not_ be afraid of that?”

He looks confused.

“We talked about this the first night we were together in this century,” she reminds him. “Do you remember?”

He nods. “Yeah. You said…” His eyebrows furrow.  “You said that each death is like another layer, and that the layers build up. That it’s tiring and difficult.”

“And have I ever hidden that from you?” she asks gently. “Have I ever pretended that the deaths of Etta and the boys, or the hundreds of other people I loved and lost, didn’t break my heart?”

“No.”

“Then why would you think that I expected you to feel differently?”

He glances down at his lap without answering. She puts her hand under his chin and tips his face upward to look at her again.

“I gave you this year because I knew you would have doubts, Steve. I knew that at some point you would realize how steep of a price it is to pay. I wanted you to explore those feelings before you made a decision. I wanted you to seriously consider your options. And I wanted to do it _with_ you.”

“And I lied to you instead,” he says miserably.

She smiles at him. “Ye of little faith.”

He scoots closer to her. “It wasn’t about you.”

“No?”

“No,” he says resolutely. “It was me. I wanted to be...I don’t know, I wanted to be sure about it. I wanted to be strong for you.”

She runs the backs of her fingers along his cheek. “You don’t need to be strong for me, Steve.”

He nods. “I know you don’t need me. I know that you—”

“You’re wrong.”

He looks surprised.

“I do need you,” she insists. “But I need the _real_ you. Not just the strong parts. Even when you’re weak or scared or angry, I need you to be you. I need you to share those things with me instead of hiding them, just like you’ve asked me to share my things with you.”

“Whole truth and nothing but,” he murmurs.

She clasps his hands in hers and squeezes gently. “I’ll never force you to share what you don’t want to, Steve. I don’t need to know everything. But this…”

“This was something you needed to know,” he finishes for her.

“Yes,” she agrees.

He studies her, his eyes roving over her face. She thinks there’s something else he wants to say, and so she waits. She is surprised when he reaches for her hip and comes away with her lasso. She covers his hand with hers.

“Steve, no.”

He pulls away from her gently and starts to wrap the lasso around his right hand anyway. “I promised myself that I would never lie to you,” he says. “That I would never let us get to the point where I had to use this so that you would know I was telling the truth. And here I am anyway.”

“I don’t need you to do this,” she tells him, covering his hand with hers again.

“ _I_ need it,” he says, glancing up at her with a look of determination. He holds his bound hand up before her. “I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I shut you out. I won’t do it again. I want to be better. I want to be the kind of man you deserve.”

“You already are.”

“Forgive me,” he breathes, tilting toward her. His voice is desperate, and she wonders if it’s the burn of the lasso that’s making him feel this way or if he already felt it and the lasso is just bringing it out. “Please, Diana,” he pleads. “Forgive me.”

Diana reaches down and wraps the lasso around her own right hand twice. Steve watches her in surprise. She leans toward him when she’s done, lifting her hand up between their faces so that he can see the glowing rope curled around her palm, too.

“I forgive you,” she whispers. She reaches out and sets her bound hand over his heart so that the lasso is pressed between her palm and his chest. “I love you.”

His resolute expression melts into a kind of pleased surprise that reminds her of the look he gave her months ago when she told him that nothing in his past could change the way she felt about him.

He leans forward slowly, his gaze darting between her eyes and her mouth. She closes the rest of the distance for him and brushes her lips over his. He kisses her back gently. It’s not a declaration but a question—a question that she can finally, after weeks of waiting and wanting, give an affirmative answer to.

She does not hesitate. She surges toward him, holding onto his shoulders as she climbs into his lap and puts her knees on either side of his hips. His kiss loses its shyness, and his hands find her waist and smooth upward over the arch of her back. She feels the drag of the lasso that is still curled around his hand. She reaches backward, ready to free him from the bind, but he pulls his hand from hers before she can.

“Leave it on,” he murmurs.

She leans away from him. He gazes up at her, determination clear in his eyes. “Are you sure?” she asks.

He nods. “I’m sure.”

She searches his face for a hint of indecision but finds none. He lifts his bound hand to her cheek, and the warmth of the lasso against her skin sends a shiver of pleasure drilling down her spine.

“I missed you,” he whispers as he lifts his face to hers and kisses her again.

She does not say it back. She shows him instead, careful but insistent, as the lasso glows between them.

* * *

Steve has watched couples on TV share a bowl of ice cream. He always laughs when he sees it. Diana is willing to share many things with him. Ice cream is not one of them.

When she appears in the bedroom doorway holding two pints of ice cream and two spoons (because heaven forbid they just share), he grins at her. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

She frowns at him as she pads across the room. “Ice cream is always a good idea.”

She holds a pint and a spoon out for him, and he props himself up against the headboard before accepting it.

“Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?” she asks as she climbs beneath the sheet next to him.

“I’m out of shape,” he sighs, staring glumly down at his still-flat but definitely-no-longer-hard stomach. “And don’t tell me you didn’t notice,” he says, glancing up at her. “Because we both know you did.”

She leans forward and kisses him softly. “I didn’t notice,” she murmurs.

“Liar,” he says.

She grins at him, and then leans back and opens her pint. “I suppose your doctor might disapprove of me feeding you ice cream for dinner,” she says before putting a spoonful of vanilla ice cream into her mouth.

“He said I could resume normal activities,” Steve replies as he opens his own pint. “It’s not our fault he didn’t know that normal activities consist of sex and ice cream.”

“We do other things.”

“You’re right. Sometimes we save the world first.”

She nudges him with her elbow, and he grins at her around a mouthful of chocolate ice cream. She smiles at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling with happiness, and his heart skips a beat in his chest.

He holds his pint out to her, and she digs her spoon into his ice cream. She holds her pint out to him in return, but he shakes his head. “So you can complain that I took too big of a spoonful? No thanks.”

She rolls her eyes but does not argue. Steve tries to focus on his ice cream, but the fact that Diana is in bed next to him and he’s now free from doctor-imposed restrictions makes it difficult. He finds himself admiring the way her spoon slides between her lips, and when she catches him staring she smirks.   

He leans his head back against the headboard and casts an admiring glance over the rest of her body. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You said before that you knew I’d end up having doubts about being immortal.”

If she’s surprised by the seriousness of his statement after he’d been openly ogling her, she doesn’t show it. She nods. “Yes.”

“Were you afraid that I might decide to just stay mortal?”

She scrapes her spoon idly along the inside of her ice cream carton and considers his question. “I don’t think I’d say afraid,” she answers after a moment. “Losing you to old age, after a lifetime of being with you, is a very different thing to deal with than losing you to a plane explosion or a bullet.”

“But you lost Etta to old age,” he points out. “And that still broke your heart.”

“Yes,” she acknowledges. “And I won’t pretend that having to say goodbye to you again would be anything but devastating. But if mortality is what you want, then it’s what I want too.”

“Even if it means you’ll be alone again someday?”

“Yes. Even then.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to be my Persephone.”

She has taught him a considerable amount about Greek mythology over the past few months, so it doesn’t take him long to recall the story she’s referencing. “Hades kidnapped Persephone,” he says. “He forced her to become his wife and live with him in the Underworld.”

She nods.

Steve shakes his head. “You’re not Hades, Diana.”

“No, I’m not,” she agrees. “But that only remains true if I leave you free to make your own decisions regardless of what my selfish heart wants. My father’s side of the family is not known for their respect for their lovers’ wishes. It’s something I’d rather not emulate.”

He turns his body to face her. “We tell each other the truth though, right? That’s something you want for us.”

“Yes.”

“Then you should tell me what you want. What you _really_ want, even if you think it’s selfish.”

Her teeth drag along her bottom lip. “I want to keep you forever,” she murmurs. Her voice is quiet, but sure.

He couldn’t hold back his smile even if he tried. “I want that too.”

It’s not the first time they’ve promised each other forever, and he knows it won’t be the last. But when he leans forward to kiss her, it feels like something new and permanent has been sealed between them.  

She smiles at him when they break apart. “Can I ask you something now?”

“Seems only fair,” he says, leaning back against the headboard again. He digs his spoon into his pint and shoves a massive bite of ice cream into his mouth. He’s barely swallowed it before Diana pulls both the spoon and the pint out of his hands.

“Hey,” he protests, assuming that she just wants another bite of his ice cream. But when she sets her own pint next to his on the nightstand and then turns to face him with a look of focused determination, he realizes that she just wants to make sure he’s paying attention.

“How long have you wanted to use the lasso in bed?” she asks.

Steve nearly swallows his tongue. He isn’t sure what he expected her to ask, but it definitely wasn’t that.

He moves his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” she offers kindly into the silence.

“No,” he blurts out. “We can...I mean, we should. I want to.”

She looks as though she’d like to call him a liar, but she refrains. Steve fidgets beneath her gaze, certain that he looks like a blushing schoolboy. _This would be so much easier if I was still wrapped in the lasso,_ he thinks. But he doesn’t want to use it as a crutch, and he doesn’t want her to think that it’s the only way he’ll tell her the truth.

He forces himself to meet her eyes. “Since that first night at Bruce’s.”

Her dark eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline. “Our first night together?”

“Yeah. I asked you to bind me because you didn’t believe that I’d choose you, remember? But then you took it off after you kissed me. And I kind of always wished you hadn’t.”

She stares at him for a long moment. He tries to hold her gaze even though he feels more than a little exposed.

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” she says.

“I don’t know,” he answers with a shrug. “I felt kind of weird about it. I mean, what was I supposed to say? ‘Hey angel, you know that lasso you use to kick people’s asses? Do you think maybe you could bind me to the bed with it?’”

“You want me to bind you to the bed?” she asks in surprise.

Steve feels his face flush immediately. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “So you _don’t_ want me to?”

“Shit,” he mutters, curling downward so that his head is buried in his hands. “This is embarrassing.”

“Why is it embarrassing?”

“Please don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.” He feels her hand caress his back, and he’s helpless against a rush of goosebumps. “I don’t understand why you’re embarrassed,” she says softly. “It’s not like we’ve never tried new things or used—”

“Please do not say sex toys,” Steve says, lifting his head to look at her.

“Why not?”

“Because the lasso is not a toy.”

The corner of her mouth twitches upward. “You sound like my mother.”

“Fucking _hell,_ Diana,” he groans, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Those other times were different. That stuff was meant for sex. _Designed_ for it. Are you really going to tell me that whoever made the lasso did it so that we could use it in bed?”

“I am not going to tell you that, no.”

“The lasso was made to make people tell the truth, and kick bad guys’ asses, and...you know, glow and shit. Plus, it’s the lasso of _Hestia._ She was a virgin goddess, so I don’t think—”

“I never told you that,” Diana interrupts.

Steve blinks at her. “What?”

“I’ve been teaching you about my family and my culture,” she says. “But we have not covered Hestia yet. So how do you know she was a virgin goddess?”

_Well shit,_ he thinks. Once again, he finds himself wondering how the hell he was dumb enough to think he could get away with lying to her. He sighs. “I googled her,” he confesses. “I was kind of hoping she was the goddess of sex or something.”

“So that you wouldn’t feel weird asking me to bind you to the bed?”

“Damn it,” Steve mutters, burying his head in his hands again. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“Because you didn’t mean it, or because you did?”

“I’m not answering that.”

Diana’s hand brushes through his hair. “Steve. Look at me.”

He turns his face toward hers reluctantly.

She smiles at him. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. Everyone has fantasies.”

He squints at her. “Even you?”

“Even me.”

He is suddenly, desperately curious. “What’s yours?”

“Me and you on a beach in Themyscira.”

Steve feels all the air rush straight out of his lungs. He stares at her, completely caught off guard. It’s not the kind of fantasy he was expecting that she’d share, but it’s so profoundly personal that he can’t help but feel honored that she’d share it.

“My favorite part of the island was a cove,” she continues quietly, glancing down at her lap. “The cliffs were high all around it, and the waves were gentler there than they were on any other part of the island. I found it while exploring as a girl. Despite all the time I spent there, I never saw anybody else. It was like my own private sanctuary.”

She looks up at him. “When you were gone, I used to fantasize about returning home and finding you there waiting for me.”

He swallows. “And now?”

She lifts a shoulder. “Now I dream about taking you there. Swimming in the sea at sunset. Making love to you beneath the stars.”

He can hear the longing in her voice, and he knows that it isn’t about making love to him. It’s about returning home and taking him with her.

She’s tried to find Themyscira before but hasn’t succeeded. He wishes he could find it for her. He wishes that he could buy a boat and sail her home and reunite her with her mother. He wants to walk hand in hand with her across the sand and the stones and listen to her say _Here is where I learned to walk_ and _Here is where I first rode a horse_ and _Here is where Antiope trained me._ He wants to see her cove and taste the salt of the sea on her lips and feel the warmth of the sun on her skin. He wants to hold her close beneath the stars.

“I wish I could give that to you,” he tells her.

She studies him, her eyes roving over his face. He tries, but he can’t read her expression.

She turns toward him slowly, her legs sliding against his beneath the sheets and her hands smoothing over his chest and then around his shoulders. She pulls him toward her, easing down onto her back and drawing his body on top of hers. Their ice cream is melting on the nightstand but Steve doesn’t care. Diana’s skin is soft and warm against his, and when he kisses her she tastes like vanilla.

“Give me this,” she murmurs against his lips. “I want this.”

She does not have to ask twice.

* * *

Diana and Steve are awake nearly all night.

In many ways, it reminds Diana of the night that she first told him she loved him. They lay tangled together beneath the sheets, talking and laughing and touching and kissing. By the time Steve finally falls asleep in her arms, the clock next to their bed reads 4:17.

When she wakes him around seven with a kiss and a quiet explanation that it’s time to get up so they don’t miss their flight, she feels a little guilty for not insisting that they go to sleep earlier. He’s clearly exhausted, probably just as much from the physical activity that his body isn’t used to as he is from lack of sleep.

“I should have told you to go to sleep,” she whispers to him apologetically when he sits up with a sigh.

He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. “S’okay. I’ll sleep on the plane.” He twists toward her and buries his face in her shoulder. “Wouldn’t trade it for anything,” he murmurs, his voice muffled.

She smiles and strokes her hand over the nape of his neck. “Me neither.”

Their first flight turns out to be nine and a half hours of constant, sleep-preventing disruptions. Every time Steve starts to doze off next to her, he is jolted awake by a crying baby or a bickering couple or a hard bout of turbulence. He catches twenty minutes here and there, but that only seems to make things worse. By the time they land in Atlanta, there are dark circles under his eyes and he’s moving so slowly that she’s starting to worry about him.

They have a two hour layover. She buys him some coffee, and they sit at a small table in a bustling part of the airport and people watch while they share some food. He looks at least a little better when they board the plane for Columbus, and Diana is pleased to find that this flight is far quieter than the previous one. Steve falls asleep on her shoulder minutes after the plane takes off, and he does not wake until it lands at four o’clock.

Ohio State isn’t expecting Diana until the following morning. The original plan was to check into their hotel and then explore the city, but when they get into their room Diana wraps her arms around Steve and asks him quietly, “Are you tired?”

It’s the first time she’s asked him a direct question about how he’s feeling since their conversation the night before. She can see the internal tug of war reflected in his eyes, the truthful answer of _Yes_ being weighed against his unwillingness to hold her back or slow her down. As recently as two days ago, he would have lied and told her that he was fine before tugging her out the door to explore. This time, she’s hoping for the truth.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

She smiles at him, thrilled by his honesty. She pulls him gently toward the bed. He follows, but when she turns the blankets down and then climbs beneath them, he hesitates. She lifts her eyebrows at him in an unspoken question.

“You like to explore new places,” he answers, glancing out the window. “And being cooped up in here is the exact opposite of that.”

“We’ve got forever to explore,” she tells him. “Right now all I want to do is lay in bed with you.”

He looks surprised and relieved and pleased all at once. He crawls across the mattress on all fours and presses his lips to hers.

“That wasn’t a euphemism for sex,” she says with a laugh, pulling back from his mouth.

He grins at her. “You sure?”

“I’m sure that you’ll need a nap to prepare for what I’ve got in mind,” she answers with a suggestive lift of one eyebrow.

“God you’ll be the death of me,” he mutters, hanging his head.

She laughs. “Come on,” she says, tugging gently on his arm. “Lay with me.”

He climbs beneath the blankets next to her. She settles against his side and starts to trace an idle pattern across his chest. He’s asleep within minutes.

Diana doesn’t expect to fall asleep herself. But it’s nearly midnight in Paris, and she’s running on even less sleep than Steve is. The bed is comfortable and warm. There is nowhere she needs to be, and nothing she needs to do. With Steve’s arm wrapped around her and his heartbeat thumping steadily in her ear, her eyes start to drop closed. Before she even realizes what’s happening, she drifts off to sleep.

* * *

When Steve wakes, the room is dark and quiet.

He squints at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It’s 5:04 in the morning. He’s been asleep for nearly twelve hours.

His brain feels foggy, but he does the time conversion anyway. He’s more than a little surprised when he realizes that it’s eleven in the morning in Paris, but Diana is still wrapped in his arms.

He vaguely remembers her slipping out of his embrace around one o’clock. He doesn’t remember her coming back, but clearly she had. His body is curled around hers, his chest pressed against her shoulder blades and his arm slung around her waist. Her shoulders are rising and falling with slow, even breaths, but he’s willing to bet she isn’t asleep.

He presses his mouth against the back of her neck to see. Sure enough, she shifts a little against him and strokes her fingers over his arm.

“When did you wake up?” he whispers.

“A while ago,” she whispers back.

Steve knows that _a while ago_ probably means hours. He marvels at her ability to lay still and do nothing for hours just for his sake. “You should have woken me up,” he tells her, feeling guilty.

“You needed to sleep,” she replies. “And I was comfortable.”

He has a sudden, insatiable desire to show her how much he loves her. He tightens his arm around her waist and kisses the back of her neck again, his tongue gliding suggestively over her skin. She inhales deeply, her back arching just a little, and then she rolls over to face him. He dips his hand beneath the hem of her shirt and caresses the base of her spine. She kisses the hollow of his throat, her tongue darting out to taste him as he had tasted her. He slides his hand along her hip, and then traces the outline of her thigh.

She lifts her mouth to his, and the rest of the world disappears. Nothing exists except her: Her lips and her skin and her hair falling in waves, moving as she does. They undress each other and then move together slowly, almost lazily. Despite the unhurried ease of it, he feels like his body has caught fire. His blood is boiling in his veins. His skin burns everywhere she touches him.

He used to judge people who lacked the discipline to resist their desires. It didn’t matter what it was they struggled to refuse—food or drink, sex or money, he disapproved of every weakness equally. He didn’t understand how people could become so fixated on things, how they could live and breathe only for whatever it was that had mastered them.

He understands now. He belongs to her, body and soul, and he will never, ever be able to resist making sure she knows it.

Afterward, they shower together and then get dressed. There is a restaurant on the first floor of their hotel that opens early for breakfast, and they claim a table by a window. As he drinks his coffee and watches Diana study the itinerary the university sent, he realizes how surreal all this is. He’s in Ohio, probably not far from the farm where he grew up. He lives in the twenty-first century, and works for a clandestine government agency alongside a league of extraordinary superheroes. One of those heroes is the love of his life, an immortal goddess who adores him despite his many, many flaws.

He couldn’t have dreamed up a better life, and he has no idea how he got so damn lucky.  

Diana glances up at him and realizes that he’s staring at her. “Penny for them?” she asks.

“You’re cute when you concentrate.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I was thinking that I’m happy,” he tells her honestly. “Really happy.”

She smiles at him, wide and breathtaking. “Me too.”

Their food comes then, and he focuses on his eggs so that he won’t be tempted to ask her if they can skip whatever’s on her itinerary and go back upstairs.

After breakfast, they head over to campus. They kill some time at a coffee shop, and then find their way toward the auditorium where her first event, a panel discussion with some other scholars and experts, is scheduled to be held.

When Diana first told him about her invitation to speak, she had brushed off its importance. She’d focused instead on the opportunity for them to visit where he grew up, and he’d focused on it too. He hadn’t asked for the details of her professional obligations—he just knew that she’d belong to the university for the day, and then they’d have the weekend to themselves.

His first indication that the invitation is a far bigger deal than she let on comes the second they enter the auditorium, when a flustered group of students fall all over themselves trying to shake her hand.

Within minutes, the president of the university and half the board of trustees are standing before her, beaming. The other members of the panel are hovering nearby, waiting their turn for her attention. Steve finds a spot in the front row and watches it all with a smirk, amused but unsurprised that everyone is so charmed by her.

About five minutes before the panel is supposed to start, nearly every seat in the auditorium is filled. Diana finally gets a moment to herself, and she immediately crosses the room and sits down next to Steve.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” she says, setting her hand on his knee. “I can find you after.”

He shrugs. “I’m kind of enjoying watching everyone fawn all over this side of you.”

“Nobody’s fawning,” she says modestly.

“So I suppose the president of the university and the board of trustees show up to all the panel discussions scheduled for Friday mornings?”

“Maybe,” she replies with a shrug of her own. “Besides, it’s not me they’re impressed with. It’s the fact that I work for the Louvre.”

Steve snorts in disagreement. “Pretty sure those grad students have your picture hanging in their dorm,” he says, nodding at a cluster of coeds who are seated nearby and openly starting at Diana.

“Miss Prince?” a young man who Steve is guessing is a student interrupts. “We’re getting ready to start.”

“I should return to my assigned seat then,” Diana says with a kind smile. “Thank you.”

The student blushes under her gaze and turns away in a sort of daze.

_Welcome to my world,_ Steve wants to say to him. Instead, he leans toward Diana. “I’d wish you luck but we both know you don’t need it.”

She smirks at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“That’s not what you said this morning.”

She shakes her head at the innuendo and squeezes his knee. As she gets to her feet and makes her way onto the stage, Steve admires the way her dress curves over her hips.

The panel lasts about two hours. It isn’t boring, per se—Steve likes the parts where Diana talks, and he is proud of the fact that she is, by far, the most compelling and intelligent person up there. But he wouldn’t call the overall discussion very interesting, and he’s secretly relieved when the moderator thanks them all for coming and the auditorium erupts into applause.

He has to wait another half hour or so for Diana because so many people want to talk to her afterward. Even when she finally makes her way toward him, there is still a small crowd of people milling around the stage and glancing after her.

“You were great,” he tells her.

She smiles. “So were you. You didn’t even yawn once.”

“I took a nice long nap to prepare,” he teases.

“The next thing on the itinerary is lunch,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at the crowd.

“With all your adoring fans?”

She turns back to him with a smile. “Yes. And then some meetings this afternoon.”

“I’m probably not invited to the meetings,” he muses.

“No,” she agrees. She sidles a little closer to him. “You are invited to lunch, though.”

She doesn’t say it, but he can hear the question all the same. _Do you want to come?_

If he’s honest, the answer is no. He knows that she will do everything in her power to include him in her conversations, but he also knows that it won’t matter. These people want to talk to Diana, not him, and if he goes with her it’s going to be long and boring.

Still, though, he feels the impulse to lie swell in his chest. He doesn’t want to disappoint her. He wants to be supportive of her work and be the doting boyfriend she deserves.

But even more than that, he wants to keep his promise to tell her the truth.

He pushes away the temptation to lie. “I think I’ll take a rain check,” he tells her. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Of course,” she murmurs with a soft smile. She leans forward and presses a brief kiss against his lips. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”

“Let me know if I should get some ice.”

She frowns at him. “Ice?”

“For your hand,” he clarifies. He grins and lifts his hand to mimic the motion of writing. “Might be sore from signing all those autographs.”

“Insufferable,” she sighs with a smile.

* * *

Late that afternoon, when Diana is finally finished with all her meetings, she pulls her phone out and texts Steve.

_Where are you?_

He answers her almost immediately by sharing his location. Diana squints at the screen, certain that she has misread what he sent. The longer she stares at it, the more questions she has.

_Why are you at the library?_ she finally texts back.

_Come and see,_ he replies.

She must look slightly confused when she walks through the front door of the library, because she is immediately approached by a librarian wearing a pale blue cardigan and a kind smile. Diana starts to describe Steve, and the older woman immediately smiles wider and beckons her toward the back of the library.

They end up in the doorway of a small room containing a whiteboard, a table, and four chairs. There is a decrepit looking projector sitting on top of the table and humming loudly. It’s projecting a map of what appears to be central Ohio onto the whiteboard, and there is a series of jagged shapes and scribbles sketched across the board in different colors. Steve is standing nearby with his arms folded over his chest.

“How’re we doing in here, Steve?” the librarian asks.

“Great,” Steve says brightly. He turns around. “You were right about—” He stops short at the sight of Diana and then grins. “Diana. Hey.”

The way he says her name sends a current of warmth through her chest. “Steve,” she greets. “I see you’ve been busy.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” the librarian says kindly. Her eyes settle on Steve. “If you have any questions, I’ll be at the desk.”

“Thanks,” Steve replies.

After the librarian closes the door behind her, Diana smiles at Steve. She is beyond amused that he sidestepped listening to lunch conversations about art only to spend the afternoon buried in the library.

“I am shocked that you charmed the elderly librarian,” she tells him dryly. “Truly shocked.”

“Says the woman who charmed half of Ohio State this morning and plans to charm the other half tonight at her lecture.”

Diana smirks in reply. She glances at the laptop sitting open on the table, and the books and papers stacked nearby. “Don’t you need a library card to access library materials?” she asks, nodding at the table.

“I called Vic and he put me in the system,” Steve says, waving off the question. “If Judy asks, we live in a cute little house in some hipster neighborhood called Clintonville.”

“You and Judy are on a first name basis,” Diana observes. “I’m almost jealous.”

He smiles. “Come here.”

The warmth stirs in her chest again. She crosses the room and steps into his arms, and he bends toward her and gives her a kiss that is probably not appropriate for a library study room. When they break apart, she hums approvingly. “Missed me, did you?” she teases.

“Desperately,” he answers. “How were your meetings?”

“Uneventful.” She nods at the projector. “What are you doing?”

Excitement flashes in his eyes. “The library has maps of Ohio from the 20th century in their online database. Judy helped me find the right one and projected it onto the whiteboard.” He turns toward the board. “I compared it to a bunch of other maps and some property deeds and stuff, and sketched out a composite of what the area looked like when I grew up.”

He points to the shapes that are drawn in dry erase marker. “This black outline is my parents’ property. Blue represents bodies of water, red is the roads, and green is some of the other farms and properties I found or could recall from memory.”

He waves in the direction of the laptop. “When I finished that, I pulled up a current map and projected it onto the one that I drew. The creek follows the same course during both time periods, so that made it pretty easy to line everything up.” He taps the black outline on the board and beams at her. “I found the exact present-day location of my family’s farm. It’s forty-five minutes south of here.”

Diana is thoroughly impressed. She moves toward the board and studies its contents in fascination. There is a pink line drawn straight through the center of his parents’ property, and to its left is a small orange box and a bigger purple box. A squiggly blue line of dry erase marker winds its way down the right side of the board, perfectly aligned with a blue line on the projected map. To the right of the blue line is a jagged green shape that is labeled with the word _Johnny._ A few inches below the green shape is a smaller one, this one labeled _Will._

Diana knows that Johnny Roberts and Will Fisher were Steve’s childhood best friends and neighbors. They enlisted around the same time he did. Neither of them made it through the war. They died before he did.

When she turns back to Steve, Diana finds that he is watching her instead of looking at the map. “The land was never developed,” he says quietly. “It’s still farm land. I traced the property deeds all the way back to when I sold the farm before I enlisted.” He tilts his head and frowns a little. “It was kind of weird to see my signature on something that Judy called a historical document.”

Diana reaches for his hand. She knows the feeling.

“The farm changed hands a lot between World War I and World War II,” he tells her, stroking his thumb over the back of her hand. “One guy split the property in half and sold it as two separate pieces.” He nods at the board. “That’s what the pink line represents. But then in the forties some guy named John Henry Wilcox bought the half where my house was, and it’s been in his family ever since.”

Diana’s heart skips a beat. “Is the house still there?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. She thinks she can see a trace of sadness in his eyes. “Wilcox tore it down and built something new. But what he built is still there. He died in the late eighties and left the land to his daughter, and she and her husband renovated the house and turned it into a bed and breakfast.”

Diana’s heart flutters again.

Steve nods at the board. “The orange box is my house. But the purple one is the bed and breakfast.”

Diana glances at the board, and then turns her attention back to him with a question on her lips.

“It’s still open for business,” he murmurs before she can ask.

“Let’s go,” she says, leaning closer to him. “Right now. I want to see it.”

“You have your lecture tonight,” he reminds her, brushing his hand over her face.

“Tomorrow then,” she counters. “First thing in the morning.”

He smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

* * *

The next morning after breakfast, Diana and Steve put their luggage in the trunk of a rental car and head out of the city.

Steve drives. Diana watches him from the passenger seat. His hands are at ten and two and gripping the steering wheel tightly. He does not sing along when one of his favorite songs comes on the radio. He makes no attempt to start a conversation. Neither does she. She knows he’s got mixed emotions about returning home, and she wants to give him the space and time to sort through them. After their conversation the other night, she trusts that he’ll open up to her when he’s ready.

Half an hour passes. She’s thinking about how he hasn’t had a nightmare since he told her the truth when the car suddenly screeches to a halt.

Diana twists toward the driver’s seat in concern. Steve’s eyes are fixed on something on her side of the road. She follows his gaze, and notices the dirt road entrance to a small, ancient-looking cemetery. When she turns back to look at him again, his face has gone pale.

“Steve?” she says gently.

“I know this place,” he murmurs, almost in awe. His eyebrows furrow. “Johnny’s mom is buried here.”

Diana waits, wondering if there are other people he knew buried here, but he doesn’t say anything else. She puts her hand on his knee. “Would you like to go in?”

He looks over at her in surprise, as though he hadn’t thought about it. “Uh,” he says. He clears his throat. Finally, he sets his hand on top of hers. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” she assures him. She smiles. “Let’s go in.”

Steve nods. He eases the car toward the dirt driveway leading into the cemetery, but he does not let go of her hand. He holds it tightly, a vise-like grip that she’s certain would probably hurt if she were human.

He lets go only when he needs to shift the car into park. He glances at her quickly, his face still pale, and then climbs out of the car and into the cool fall morning. Diana follows his lead. She walks around the front of the car and stops next to him, and he reaches for her hand immediately, his fingers weaving through hers.

“I don’t remember where,” he confesses, his eyes sweeping over the cemetery.

“We have time. Why don’t we just walk and look?”

He nods and starts toward the nearest row.

Diana isn’t sure how long they walk. She checks the gravestones for the right name, but she’s mostly focused on trying to read Steve’s expression. He looks determined, but also a little bewildered. She’s dying to hold him.

He lurches to a halt. “Here,” he murmurs. He sucks in a sharp breath a second later, and his body goes stiff next to hers. Diana looks down and sees that there are three gravestones bearing the name _Roberts_ in capital letters. Beneath the surname on the middle grave is a smaller set of letters spelling out a first name. _Jonathan._

Steve’s blue eyes are suddenly bright with unshed tears, and Diana’s heart aches for him. She steps closer, her chest brushing against his shoulder as she clasps his hand in both of hers.

“Johnny?” she murmurs.

He nods.

“You didn’t know he was here?”

He shakes his head. “I was on a mission when he died. By the time I found out, the funeral was already over. I didn’t make it back here to see his folks before I died.” It seems like he has more to say, but after a long moment of silence he closes his mouth and swallows hard.

“I’m sorry,” Diana whispers. She wishes she had something more comforting to say, but she knows from experience that words aren’t very helpful when it comes to soothing grief.

Steve looks over at her. His gaze flickers over her face. “How many times have you done this?” he asks.

“Done what?”

“Stood at the grave of someone you knew.”

Diana’s chest tightens. “I don’t remember,” she admits.

“Too many to count?”

She nods.

A breeze blows through the cemetery. Steve reaches up and brushes a few errant strands of hair behind her ear. “This is what it’s going to be like in a hundred years,” he says, his voice quiet. “Me and you in a cemetery. Names we know on the gravestones.”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t have to be like that for you. You know that.”

He turns away from the graves and toward her. He lifts his hands to her face and strokes his thumbs along her cheeks. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad I don’t have to do this alone.”

“You don’t have to do anything alone, Steve.”

“Neither do you,” he whispers. “Not anymore.”

* * *

Years later, when Steve recalls that Saturday in rural Ohio, he will remember it as the perfect encapsulation of the phrase _roller coaster of emotions._

When the GPS on his phone announces that they’ve arrived at their destination, they are greeted by a _For Sale By Owner_ sign at the end of the long driveway. Steve looks over at Diana in surprise, and sees a similar expression on her face. He feels a sudden wave of panic surge up into his throat.

_Who bought my home?_

Diana’s hand smoothes over his thigh. “It would say sold if it was sold,” she murmurs.

He doesn’t know how she does that—how she reads his mind and calms his fears simultaneously. He doesn’t really care. He’s just glad she does.

After they park and get out of the car, they are greeted by a balding man with a kind smile. His hands are gnarled by arthritis, he shuffles his feet when he walks, and his back is bent with age. He introduces himself as Michael and extends his hand.

Steve shakes it, but he can barely manage to get out a brief _hello._ His voice is stuck in his throat. His heart feels as though it’s slowing to a stop. When he sucks in a breath, he smells the familiar scent of wet grass and dirt and wide open space. There are dogs barking in the distance. When a breeze rustles through the trees nearby and then caresses his face with an autumn chill, he nearly chokes on the phantom taste of his mother’s pumpkin pie.

_Home,_ his heart seems to murmur when it thuds back to life. _I’m home._

Diana weaves her hand through his. She holds her other hand out to Michael and introduces herself. Steve glances between them, still dazed, but the warmth of Diana’s hand thaws the chill of his skin. He can’t seem to focus on what they’re saying—he only knows that Diana’s voice is soothing in its familiarity, and that Michael is unfurling in her presence the way everyone does.

They talk animatedly for a while. Steve stands mutely next to them, taking in his surroundings and stroking his thumb absently across Diana’s hand as he tries not to drown in memories. Eventually, Michael ushers them toward the house. They get a brief tour, and end up at the kitchen table drinking mugs of hot apple cider. That’s when Diana asks about the _For Sale_ sign at the end of the driveway.

“I’m not as young as I used to be,” Michael says with a sad smile. “After my wife died, managing this place just got to be too hard. Haven’t had any offers yet, but I’m hoping for one soon. I’m planning to move in with my daughter in Cincinnati this spring.”

Steve’s heart leaps in his chest. He imagines clearing his throat and saying, _I’d like to make an offer._ The words are right on the tip of his tongue, clamoring to get out, but he swallows them. It was on this same land, at a table not unlike this one, that his father once lectured him about the dangers of making decisions on impulse. It seems disrespectful to ignore his advice now.

“What brings you folks to Ohio?” Michael asks, breaking into Steve’s thoughts.

Diana may not lie, but she is rather adept at something that Steve likes to call _managing the truth._ She is honest about her invitation to speak at Ohio State, and about the fact that Steve’s family owned the farm back in the 1900s. She does not, however, reveal that Steve was alive at the time.  

Michael is immediately intrigued. He asks about Steve’s family, but Steve shakes his head. “I don’t know much,” he lies. “Just that a relative sold the farm before he enlisted for World War I.”

“That’s a shame,” Michael says in disappointment. “You should check with the city library. They have all sorts of genealogies and historical records.”

Steve promises he will. He can feel Diana watching him, trying to gauge whether he is okay. He smoothes his hand over her thigh beneath the table.

“Can I interest you in some lunch?” Michael asks next.

Steve is grateful for the change in subject, so he says yes immediately. Diana smiles and agrees. The three of them work together to make some sandwiches, and while they eat Michael tells them stories about his wife and kids. Steve finds the stories oddly comforting—he is glad to know that there were other families who lived and laughed and loved on the same ground he did.

After lunch, Michael heads into town to run some errands. Once the front door bangs shut behind him, Steve sidles up behind Diana and slips his arms around her waist. She’s washing their lunch dishes in the sink, but she tips her head back to rest against his shoulder.

“Can I give you the 20th century tour?” he says in her ear.

She smiles and turns off the faucet. “Yes please.”

It takes Steve a little while to get his bearings, but eventually he figures out where everything used to be. He shows Diana the stream that he and Johnny and Will raced wooden toy boats in during the summer. He shows her the place where the barn used to be, and the spot where he fell off a horse and broke his arm. He shows her the hill where his grandpa sat and watched the thunderstorms roll in, and the place where his mom hung the laundry. When they find the spot where his house used to stand, just beyond the rotted out stump that used to be his favorite apple tree, Diana wraps her arms around him.

Steve holds her close and murmurs, “I wish you could’ve seen it.”

“Me too,” she murmurs back.

They drive into town for dinner. Some of the buildings Steve remembers are still standing, but there are also new fast food joints and paved roads and traffic signs. They eat dinner at the only restaurant in town that doesn’t have a drive thru, and then they head next door to the bar for a drink.

Everywhere they go, people stare at Diana. She is dressed down in leggings and one of Steve’s sweatshirts, but it doesn’t seem to matter—the patrons and staff in both the restaurant and the bar seem fascinated by her. As they walk toward the car after they leave the bar, Steve drapes an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. “Us farm folk ain’t used to beautiful goddesses,” he whispers in her ear. She laughs, warm and melodic, and his heart stutters in his chest.

When they get back to the bed and breakfast, they find Michael standing next to a roaring bonfire. “Thought you folks might like a fire,” he says, his eyes fixed on Diana. “It’s a good night for one.”

She smiles. “It’s perfect. Thank you. Won’t you join us?”

“Nah,” he says, though he seems extremely pleased by her offer. “I oughta head to bed. I put some blankets out,” he adds, nodding at one of the adirondack chairs arranged around the fire pit. “Might get cold. Bucket’s here with some water. Just dump it on the fire before you head to bed.”

Diana thanks him again, and then he ambles into the house. Steve spreads one of the blankets out on the grass and then sits. Diana settles between his legs and arranges another blanket over their bodies. Steve wraps his arms around her and pulls her back against his chest, and when she nestles into his embrace he buries his nose into her hair and inhales.

For a long time, neither of them speak. He isn’t sure what she’s thinking about, but he’s thinking about the night they’d spent camped out with the boys on their way to the front. It’s the fire, maybe, that draws the memory to the surface of his mind. He hadn’t held her in his arms that night the way he is holding her now, but he’d certainly thought about it. He’d fallen asleep wondering what it would be like to kiss her.

“Steve?” Diana calls softly.

“Hm,” he hums in her ear.

“I think we should buy the farm.”

Steve is so surprised that his arms go limp around her body. He leans back to stare at the back of her head. “You do?”

She turns in his arms to face him. “You don’t?”

“Well,” he starts and then stops. He frowns. “I do, actually. I’ve been thinking about it all day, trying to figure out a way to bring it up. I wasn’t hiding it,” he clarifies. “I just...I don’t know. It felt impulsive.”

The corner of her mouth lifts. “Steve, _you’re_ impulsive.”

“I am not.”

“Would you like me to give you some examples?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

No less than six separate instances when he has been impulsive suddenly spring to mind. He crinkles his nose. “No.”

She bites her lip around a smile and, in her infinite kindness, does not point out that she was right and he was wrong. “We can afford it,” she says instead.

They could afford to buy the whole damn county if they wanted to. He keeps that thought to himself. “Yeah,” he agrees. The fire looms behind her, giving the outline of her body an ethereal glow. _Angel,_ he thinks admiringly. And then, _Focus you idiot._ “I know why I want to buy it,” he tells her. “But I’m not sure why you do.”

“Because it’s important to you,” she answers. “That means it’s important to me.” She strokes her hand over his face. “We don’t know who Michael will end up selling to,” she adds. “And we don’t know what they’ll do with the land.”

Steve nods. He’d thought of that earlier, when they’d first seen the _For Sale_ sign. “If we don’t buy it, it might look different next time we try to visit.”

She nods. And then she whispers, “I can’t return home.” There is an undercurrent of sadness in her voice, but a look of determination in her eyes. “I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

There’s nothing he could possibly say to that, so he doesn’t try. He just leans forward and kisses her, every nerve ending in his body buzzing in awe that a woman this kind and generous and selfless could somehow fall in love with him. His heart starts to thud the same rhythm that it did this morning, but this time it has nothing to do with his location and everything to do with the woman in his arms.

_I’m home._

After a long moment, Diana smiles against his lips. “Is this your way of saying yes?”

He grins and leans back. “Yeah.”

“Tomorrow?” she asks, her voice lifting on the last syllable.

He nods. “We’ll make an offer over breakfast.”

Her answering smile is stunning. This time, she kisses him. Steve lets himself get lost in it. He never tires of kissing her, no matter how many hours they’ve already devoted to the practice, and this time is no different.

The leaves on the trees rustle in a strong breeze. Steve isn’t cold, but he shivers. Diana weaves her fingers into his hair and kisses him deeper, her body leaning into his as if she wants to transfer some of her warmth. He grips her hips and hauls her even closer, satisfied only when she rearranges herself so that her knees scrape against his sides as she brackets his body with her thighs.

She wraps her arms around his neck. Steve slides his hands beneath her coat and her sweatshirt. He strokes upward along the curve of her spine, finds the clasp of her bra, and unhooks it. He feels her chest hitch against his in surprise. He likes when he can pull a reaction from her that seems involuntary. It’s his desire for another such reaction that makes him smooth his hands around to the front of her body, and then slip his thumbs beneath the cups of her bra to stroke the undersides of her breasts.

She sighs into his mouth. Desire tightens in his groin. She sucks lightly on his bottom lip and then whispers, “Here?”

_Here, yes, now,_ he wants to say. They are in the middle of nowhere, so only the stars and trees are watching. Michael has gone to bed, and even if he happens to glance out a window he will see only a vague outline of their bodies by the fire. She tastes like the cheap beer they’d had at the bar, and her hair smells like bonfire smoke. Neither is normal for her, nor would he say that they are things he usually finds arousing, but Diana has a way of making even the simplest things hot as hell.

_Like the lasso._

Steve jolts back from her mouth at the uninvited thought. Diana gazes down at him in surprise, and he is suddenly consumed by the mental image of her binding his wrists to the metal rungs of the headboard in their room. Desire pulses through his blood, all of it rushing downward, and he chokes a little at the realization that he wants it so badly he thinks he’s finally ready to ask her for it.

“Steve?” Diana asks. Her eyebrows are gathered in confusion, probably because he went from unhooking her bra to just staring at her stupidly.

“Inside,” he blurts out. Her frown deepens. He strokes his hands over her sides and shifts beneath her. “The fire’s nice,” he tries again. “But I, uh…” He swallows. “Can we go inside?”

“Okay,” she says, giving him a strange look.

He hooks her bra for her, and they get to their feet. Steve dumps the bucket of water over the fire, and then kicks some dirt over the logs. When he glances up at Diana, he finds that she is folding the blankets. His eyes are immediately drawn to her hands, and it isn’t hard for his brain to substitute the lasso for the blankets.

“Steve.”

Her voice jolts him out of his reverie, and he looks up at her guiltily.

She arches an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“What’s what?”

She smirks. “What are you thinking about right now?”

There’s no way he’s saying it out here in the open where his voice can carry on the wind. It’s completely illogical, seeing as nobody’s around and he’d seriously considered having sex with her out here less than two minutes ago, but he refuses—absolutely _refuses_ —to say what he’s about to say anywhere but the privacy of a bedroom.

“Inside,” he says.

She stares at him, her expression split between amusement and curiosity, and does not move.

“Please?” he begs.

She sighs a little at him, and then walks toward the house. He falls in step next to her. She weaves their fingers together, her skin warm against his, and he glances down at their hands and has another flash of fantasy.

They enter the house and then climb the steps up to their room. The old wooden stairs groan beneath his feet, and the house is creaking in the wind, but other than that it’s almost silent. _We’re going to have to be quiet,_ he thinks. He wonders briefly if it would have been better if they’d just stayed outside, but then he remembers the headboard of the bed, and the metal rungs waiting to have something tied to them, and he moves a little faster up the steps.

His eyes settle on the headboard the second he crosses the threshold of the bedroom. His heart leaps into his throat. He swallows and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

When he turns around he sees Diana standing in the doorway, watching him. Her eyes do not leave his as she closes the door softly behind her and then leans back against the wood. There’s no way she hasn’t noticed his sudden nervousness, but she doesn’t comment on it. She just tilts her head, her gaze flickering over his body and her teeth dragging along her bottom lip. It’s a clear invitation, and desire propels him forward until he is standing before her, his hands brushing over her cheeks as he bends to kiss her.

Her lips are soft and familiar against his. She gathers a fistful of his shirt and tugs him closer, and he presses her back against the door. “Tell me what you want,” she murmurs against his lips.

Now’s the perfect time to ask. She’s _telling_ him to ask. But the ability to speak suddenly deserts him, and he leans back a little to stare at her with an open mouth and a racing heart.

She sweeps her gaze over his face, waiting. He says nothing. She leans forward and kisses him again. “Please,” she whispers.

This, he realizes, is the final test of his willingness to tell her the truth. In the last few days, he has been honest about his tired and aching body. He has been honest about how he wants to spend his time. He has even been honest about how much he misses his family and friends, and how he feels about becoming immortal. All that’s left is this—this secret fantasy that he has had for so long, this thing that, if he’s honest with her about it, could lead to a humiliating rejection.

He holds her gaze as he reaches for the lasso at her hip. Her eyes widen. He presses the rope into one of her hands. It glows between them. He lets go of it, making sure that no part of its length is touching him. He wants to ask under his own free will.

“Will you…” he starts. The words die in his throat. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then opens them again. “Can we use this?”

Her eyes are locked on his. “Like before?”

He thinks of the only other time they have used the lasso during sex—that night after he told her the truth, when they both had it bound loosely around their hands. He shakes his head.

Understanding dawns on her face. He’d never actually given her a straight answer about what his fantasy was, but he thinks she knows. She always knows.

He doesn’t have to tell her. He knows she won’t make him. He could lead her over to the bed and show her what he wants, and he’s pretty sure she’d give it to him without ever actually asking him to say it out loud. But that feels like letting himself off the hook, like the coward’s way out, and he doesn’t want to be a coward anymore. He wants to be brave for her. His heart is pounding and his mouth is dry and he thinks there’s a pretty serious chance he might faint like a princess in a fairy tale, but he’s determined to tell her the truth. She deserves it.

“I want you to bind me,” he breathes, his voice wavering.

There is a brief moment after the words leave his mouth when he is absolutely, one hundred percent certain he’s made a mistake. He feels like one of those cartoon characters that races off a cliff and then hangs suspended in the air, staring down into an abyss of empty space.

The thought that she might not want what he does—that it might make her uncomfortable—strikes him with sudden and terrible force. “Only if you want to,” he rushes to say. He nearly chokes on the words. “If it makes you uncomfortable—”

“It doesn’t.”

He stares at her, almost disbelieving. She glances down at the lasso, and then back up into his eyes with a pointed look. _She can’t lie,_ he realizes.

“I want it too,” she says softly.

Again, he stares at her. He thinks his heart might have stopped beating. He may have stopped breathing, too. He may actually keel over and die, right here and now, just at the mere thought that she wants the same thing he does.

“Really?” he croaks, his voice hoarse.

She nods. “Really.”

And just like that, she catches him. He’s in her arms and in no danger of falling into the abyss. He isn’t scared anymore, either. There’s nothing to be scared of.

“You never said anything,” he whispers, tilting closer to her.

“Because I didn’t realize I wanted it,” she answers. “Not until you said it the other night.”

“But now you know? And you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Diana...”

“I want it, Steve,” she insists. She smiles. “I thought about asking for it last night.”

He gapes at her in surprise, and then a question prods him. “You thought about asking if you could do it to _me?_ ” he asks. “Or you thought about asking if I would do it to _you?_ ”

The corner of her mouth lifts into a smirk. “Both.”

That conjures up a whole host of very heated imaginings, and Steve sighs—groans, actually—and buries his face in the curve of her shoulder. “God, Diana.”

“Goddess, actually.”

“You’re perfect.”

“I’m not.”

“Extraordinary then.”

She hums thoughtfully. “I’ll allow that.”

He laughs, and then leans back to look at her. He marvels at the sweep of her eyelashes, the angled cut of her jaw, the pink of her kiss-swollen lips. He strokes his hands along the curve of her hips. He’s biased, probably, but he’s convinced she’s the most beautiful woman on the planet.

The lasso is still glowing in one of her hands, but she lifts the other to his face. “I love you,” she says softly. Her other hand moves toward the spot where one of his hands is still resting on her hip. Her fingertips brush along the back of his arm, and then the lasso closes, hot but loose, around his wrist. “Let me show you,” she whispers.

The desire that’s already simmering in his body goes molten. He can barely breathe. He doesn’t care. He whispers her name as both a confirmation and a plea, and she gives him everything he asked for.

* * *

The next morning, Steve and Diana buy a farm.

Michael cries when they tell him. Steve looks over at Diana in bewilderment. Diana folds the older man into a hug without a moment’s hesitation.

When Michael gets ahold of himself, he thanks them repeatedly. Steve flushes at his profuse gratitude, and assures Michael that they’re the ones who should be grateful.

“I’d like to sort out the details,” Michael says, dabbing at his eyes with a dish towel. “But I have to head out for church.” His face brightens. “Would you like to come?”

Steve is ready with an excuse, but something stops him from giving it. “What church?” he asks.

Diana glances toward him in surprise.

“First United Methodist,” Michael answers. “You might have seen it on your way into town yesterday. The one with the steeple.”

Steve’s heart shoots into his throat. “Yeah,” he manages to say. “We’d love to come.”

As they make their way out to the car, Diana’s hand slides into his. He can hear the question even though she doesn’t verbalize it.

“It’s the one I grew up going to,” he answers in a whisper.

She squeezes his hand.

The church is much older and much smaller than Steve remembers. It smells musty and damp. The pews creak every time someone moves. The acoustics are terrible and echoey, and the carpet is worn and faded.

Steve has never been much of a believer. As a kid he went to church to please his mother, and because it’s just what people did in his neck of the woods on Sundays. After his parents died, and he enlisted and saw all the horrors that mankind was capable of, whatever belief he still possessed disintegrated. He couldn’t believe that a good and just god could exist in a world so broken.

Then he met Diana.

He meant it when he told her that she’s the only god he believes in. He believes in her with every fiber of his being, even the dark and scarred ones that he is ashamed of. Sometimes, though, he wonders if there might be a higher power pulling the strings, a being that has seen fit to bring him and Diana together not once, but twice.

When the pastor gets up to the pulpit and announces that he will be preaching on truth, Steve’s chest tightens at the coincidence. Diana’s hand finds his knee.

It’s a short but powerful sermon. By the end, Steve is gripping Diana’s hand in his.

“The Bible is the word of truth,” the pastor says emphatically. “And it says unequivocally that love is the most powerful force on earth. Nothing can break chains like love. Nothing can drive out darkness but love. Love is many things, my friends. It is grace. It is forgiveness. It is mercy. But above all, we must remember that it is truth. And the truth will set us free.”

The small congregation echoes a word of agreement. Steve looks over at Diana. When she meets his gaze, he murmurs the same word to her that everyone else is saying to the pastor.

“Amen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final section reminds me of the song “Woman, Amen” by Dierks Bentley. I have a feeling that if Steve heard it, he’d probably add it to their playlist :)


	7. Barry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, this thing is so long that I can't even call it a chapter. It is a BOOK. I blame those of you who were so nice about the last chapter that was also way too long. It's all your fault. Also, it really should be called something like "Diana and Steve teach Barry how to be in a relationship and he teaches them some stuff too" but I kinda like the one word titles, so here we are. 
> 
> A few more things: First, if you haven't read the chapters Guilt and Truth, some of the plot points in this one won't make much sense. Second, thank you again—so, so much—for your kind comments. Y'all are wonderful.

****_March 2019_

Diana is in a department meeting, explaining some of the finer points of acquisition to a new guy with a smug smile that makes her want to choke him with her lasso, when her phone lights up. _Barry Allen,_ the screen reads. She does not pause in her explanation, but she is suddenly a little less focused on the task at hand. If Barry calls again, she will have to excuse herself and answer the phone because it will be an emergency.

He does not call again, but her screen does light up a second time to signal that she has a voicemail. She feels herself relax. She finishes explaining to the new guy—politely, but firmly—why he is wrong, and then is immediately seconded by the head of another department.

“Precisely,” says the head of a third department.

“Mademoiselle Prince is one hundred percent correct,” says the head of the Islamic Art Department. “What you are suggesting, monsieur, is both ill-advised and against museum policy.”

Things get a bit awkward after that, but Diana just smiles politely and nods her head. When the meeting is adjourned, the new guy is a little less smug and the head of the Egyptian Antiquities Department is trying to catch Diana’s eye from across the room, most likely to gossip about the new guy. Diana pretends she doesn’t notice, and ducks out of the room with her phone to her ear.

“Hey Di,” Barry says in his voicemail. “Something happened. Something really cool. Like really, _really_ cool, like you don’t even _know_ how cool, like I can barely _breathe_ right now. Can you call me back? Soon? Please? _Please._ Okay bye.”

She calls him back immediately.

“Di,” he answers, sounding breathless.

“Barry,” she greets. She is already smiling and she doesn’t even know why he called. “What—”

“I ASKED IRIS OUT ON A DATE AND SHE SAID YES,” Barry bellows in her ear.

Diana’s smile slides into a grin. “Oh Barry, that’s wonderful,” she says. “I’m so proud of you.”

“You helped!”

“I did?” she says in surprise. “How?”

“Okay, so, I ran into her at the coffeeshop—accidentally, of course—and she was reading this textbook on art and I was like _Oh, cool. Art._ And she was like _Yeah, I’m taking a class. Do you like art?_ And I was like, _Psh, yeah. Love art. I’m an art guy all the way._ And she was like, _Oh I didn’t know that about you._ And I was like, _Heck yeah. One of my best friends works at an art museum._ And she goes, _Wow that is so cool._ And I was like, _Yeah my friend is super cool. She has a really cool boyfriend too. You would really like them._ And she was like, _Maybe we could all hang out sometime._ And I was like, _Yeah, how about Saturday?_ And SHE SAID YES, DI, SHE SAID YES.”

There is a brief pause. Diana doesn’t say anything, because she’s waiting for him to realize. He doesn’t.

“Di?” he asks. “Are you still there?”

“You asked Iris to go on a double date with you, me, and Steve on Saturday night?” she asks.

“Yeah. Smart, right? I’ll be way less awkward with you and Steve around, and you can finally meet her, and we can all be best friends and ISN’T IT THE BEST THING YOU’VE EVER HEARD?!”

“Barry,” Diana says softly. She really doesn’t want to rain on his parade, but... “Steve and I live in Paris.”

“Duh,” he scoffs. “What does that have to do with...” He trails off, and Diana winces. “Oh,” he says. There is a dull thud in the background, followed by an agonized groan. “Oh, _shit._ ”

He sounds completely devastated, and Diana makes up her mind without a second’s hesitation. “Let me—”

“What am I going to do?” Barry moans, cutting her off. “If I text her and tell her you guys aren’t coming she’ll think it’s just a ruse I made up to ask her out.”

“Barry.”

“And then she’ll think I’m some creep like those guys at the park who borrow their friend’s dog to pick up women, except I made up a friend who likes art just to get her to say yes.”

“Barry.”

“God, Di, I blew my one chance with her before I even—”

“ _Barry._ ”

“What?” Barry says morosely.

“You said Saturday?”

“It was supposed to be Saturday,” he grumbles. “Now it’s probably going to happen two weeks after never at never o’clock in neverland.”

Diana glances at her watch. It’s four o’clock on Thursday, and she has a meeting tomorrow morning that she can’t miss. She and Steve already had plans for Saturday. She’ll have to ask Bruce to borrow the jet. There are half a dozen other reasons to tell Barry that she’s sorry, but he’s just going to have to make do without her.

“Let me talk to Steve,” she says anyway. “I think we can make it work.”

“No way,” Barry scoffs. “That’s insane. You live on the other side of the world. I can’t ask you to fly all the way over here just for a double date.”

“You didn’t ask,” Diana points out. “I offered.”

“Di—”

“Let me talk to Steve. I’ll call you back.”

* * *

Steve is sitting at the dining table, typing up a report for Waller and batting Leesi away every time she tries to sit on his keyboard, when Diana walks in the front door.

Steve blinks at her in surprise, because she’s about an hour and a half earlier than usual. She smiles at him. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, leaning back in his chair. Leesi curls up on the keyboard the moment his hands are out of the way and gives him a look of triumphant superiority. Steve ignores her. “What’re you doing home so early?” he asks Diana.

She shrugs as she hangs up her coat. “I finished everything that needed to be finished, and I wanted to avoid the gossip that was sure to find me if I lingered in my office.”

“Smug new guy?” Steve asks sympathetically.

“Smug new guy,” she confirms. “Though he seems a little less smug after the department meeting this afternoon.”

“You take him down a peg or two?” Steve asks with a smirk.

Diana smiles at him. “I told the truth as kindly as I could.”

“So three pegs then,” Steve says.

Diana smiles wider but does not disagree. She crosses the room and bends down to kiss him, and he lifts his face toward hers eagerly. He’s been in this century for over a year now—almost thirteen months to the day—and kissing Diana is still just as spectacular as it was the first time he did it on the floor of the Batcave all those months ago.

“What are you doing?” she asks after she pulls away, glancing at his laptop screen.

Steve pulls lightly on her hips, and she lowers herself gracefully onto his lap. “Paperwork,” he says, leaning forward to plant a kiss on her shoulder.

“Leesi does not approve,” she observes, reaching out to pet the cat.

“Leesi is spoiled rotten,” Steve replies.

“I wonder whose fault that is,” Diana says pointedly, casting a glance at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Haven’t the slightest idea,” Steve answers.

Diana turns in his lap to face him and brushes her hand through his hair. “Barry called me today.”

“Yeah? What’d he want?”

“He finally asked Iris out on a date, and she said yes.”

“About damn time,” Steve says. He frowns. “I’m kind of disappointed he didn’t tell me first, considering he’s been asking me for flirting tips for the past year.”

“I think he called me because I helped facilitate the conversation. Apparently they were discussing art at the time. He told her I worked at a museum, which she seemed to think was interesting.”

Steve grins. “Name dropping the Louvre. Smooth move, Bar.”

Diana tilts her head. “Not quite. He did not mention the Louvre. Just that I worked at a museum. I think she thought he meant the Central City art museum, because she suggested that the four of us should spend some time together. Barry seized his chance and suggested Saturday, and she agreed.”

Steve furrows his eyebrows. Diana is smiling a little, but she does not say anything else. “So Barry volunteered us for a double date,” he summarizes.

“Yes.”

“And the date is in less than forty-eight hours on the other side of the world.”

“Yes.”

“And instead of telling him that he’s shit out of luck and should learn how to slow down and think ahead and plan, you want to go.”

Her smile is wide and breathtaking now. “Yes.”

“Hm,” he says.

“I did not commit us,” she clarifies. “So we do not have to go if you don’t want to.”

“But _you_ want to.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Because it’s important to him. Because he is very nervous, and he will be less nervous if we’re there. Because I want to see if she is good enough for him.” She drapes her arms around his shoulders. “And because if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t get to wake up every morning next to you.”

Steve smirks. “Well when you put it that way.”

She shakes her head earnestly. “We don’t have to go, Steve. I can tell him no.”

Steve smiles. “Call Bruce and ask him if we can borrow the jet tomorrow afternoon. I’ll book us a hotel room. We’re going.”

She leans forward and brushes her mouth over his. “I love you,” she murmurs.

“Not as much as you love Barry,” he teases.

She smiles and shifts purposefully in his lap. “I love you differently.”

“Thank god for that,” he sighs.

* * *

Late Saturday morning, Diana and Steve are tucked into the back corner of a cafe in Central City when her phone buzzes on the table.

“Ten bucks says it’s Barry,” Steve says over his mug.

Diana smiles as she sets her book down but she does not accept his bet. When she glances at her phone screen, she sees that she was wise not to.

“Hello Barry,” she greets after she lifts the phone to her ear.

“What do I wear?” Barry says breathlessly on the other end of the line. “I mean, I don’t want to be the nerd who wears a suit. But I also don’t want to be the douche who wears a t-shirt. And I was reading online about how certain colors can affect people’s perceptions of you, but I can’t seem to find a definitive answer on what color women like and you’re, you know, a _woman._ So, uh, what color should I wear? Or, like, are there patterns you guys like? Or maybe a combination of colors? Or, god, I don’t know, a colored pattern?”

“Does the restaurant have a dress code?” she asks.

Steve lifts his eyes from the newspaper to look at Diana from across the table. “Is he asking you about what to wear?” he whispers.

Diana smiles and nods. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Vic picked the restaurant,” Barry answers. “He says it’s a good place for a first date cause it’s not too fancy but not too shabby and apparently I’m supposed to wear clothes that are _smart casual_ but he got tired of me sending him pictures of my shirts and now he won’t answer my texts and neither will Bruce or Clark and even Google says that smart casual is an ambiguous term and oh my god, Di, I think I’m going to pass out.”

Diana decides she is going to hug him very tightly when she sees him. “We’ll be there soon,” she tells him.

“At my apartment?” Barry squeaks.

“Yes. I will help you pick out your clothes. Steve will approve them. And then you can go pick up Iris and meet us at the museum.”

“I refuse to take part in this,” Steve announces from the other side of the table.

“Steve is very excited about it,” Diana says to Barry.

“You guys are _saints,_ ” Barry moans. “See you soon.”

“Diana,” Steve says after she hangs up the phone. “He is a grown man. He can pick out his own clothes.”

Diana does not disagree, but she still gets up from her chair.

“I haven’t even finished my scone,” Steve whines.

Diana plucks the last bite of scone off his plate and pops it into her mouth. She smiles at Steve as she pulls on her coat, and Steve scowls back at her.

“You owe me a scone,” he mutters.

* * *

“Admit it,” Steve says to Diana as they ride the elevator up to Barry’s apartment. “If Barry called you and said that he had murdered the other guy in an Iris-centered love triangle and needed you to help him bury the body, you would do it.”

“Barry is not part of a love triangle.”

“That’s not the point. It’s hypothetical.”

“Fine. Then hypothetically, no, I wouldn’t.”

Steve smirks at her. “You’re only disagreeing with me to be difficult. You know I’m right.”

“You are absolutely not right. I would never do that.”

“Not for anyone else, no, but you’d do it for Barry.”

“Barry is not above the law.”

“Yeah, but it’s _Barry._ He’s your favorite person on the planet.”

“ _You’re_ my favorite person on the planet,” she says, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

He turns his face at the last second, and she ends up kissing his mouth instead. He can feel her smile against his lips. He curls a finger through one of the belt loops on her coat and tugs. He’s not strong enough to move her unless she _wants_ to be moved, so he’s pleased when she lets him yank her against his chest. He immediately takes advantage of her proximity: He traces his tongue along her smiling lips, and she opens her mouth to him.

He’s trying to undo the knotted belt on her coat when the elevator arrives with a muted _ding._ The doors slide open, and Diana leans back. Steve huffs at her.

“Barry is waiting,” she murmurs, stroking her fingers along his jaw.

“Which is important because Barry is your favorite person on the planet that you don’t have sex with on a regular basis,” he shoots back.

Diana rolls her eyes and steps out of his embrace and off the elevator. Steve follows her.

“We could ask him if he thinks you’d help him bury a body,” he says after a brief, companionable silence.

“There’s no need,” Diana replies, stopping in front of Barry’s door. “You are wrong, and I am right.” She lifts her hand and knocks.

“We’ll ask him,” Steve decides.

“You’re insufferable,” Diana tells him.

Barry swings the door open before Steve can respond. “Thank _god,_ ” the speedster says, collapsing against the doorframe.

“Goddess,” Steve corrects. And then he turns to Diana and says in Greek, “He’s worse than I thought.”

“Yes,” Diana agrees, also in Greek. “It’s adorable.”

Barry frowns. “You guys can’t talk to each other in Greek in front of Iris. It’s weird.”

“Make sure he combs his hair,” Steve says, this time in French. “He looks like a twelve-year-old.”

“I’ve tried before,” Diana sighs, also in French. “It seems to have a mind of its own.”

Barry groans. “Please, guys, can you not be you for, like, one day? It’s already enough pressure to go on a double date with the world’s most perfect couple.”

“This double date was _your_ idea,” Steve points out in English, brushing past Barry and into the apartment. “We’re only here because you asked us to be. After flying halfway across the world, by the way.”

Barry winces. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” Diana says as she hugs Barry. “We are very happy to be here.” She casts a look at Steve. “Aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Steve agrees immediately. “Definitely. Really looking forward to it.” And then he spots the two bouquets of flowers sitting on the kitchen counter and frowns. “Two bouquets might be a little much for the first date, Bar.”

Barry’s face flushes crimson. “Actually, one of them is for Di.” He glances at Diana shyly. “Since you’ve been so patient with me.”

Diana looks like she’s about to melt into a puddle on the floor. Steve tries not to roll his eyes.

“That is very sweet,” Diana tells Barry. “Thank you.”

Steve feels a strong gust of air rush past him, and then suddenly he’s holding a large bag of Cheetos.

“I figured you wouldn’t want flowers,” Barry says with a grin. He nods at the TV. “Ohio State’s on, by the way.”

Barry’s TV—which wasn’t on a moment ago—is playing a college basketball game. “Hell yes,” Steve mutters with a fist pump. He rips open the bag, crosses the room, and flops down onto the couch. “I’ll be here when you’re ready for my approval,” he announces. He tips his head over the back of the couch and gives Diana an upside down grin. “Good luck.”

Diana smirks. “Try not to get orange dust all over the couch.”

“No promises,” Steve says before he shoves a handful of Cheetos into his mouth.

Diana rolls her eyes a little and ushers Barry toward his bedroom. “Come on,” she says. “Time to get you dressed.”

* * *

“Are you _sure_ it’s stylish to wear black _and_ blue?” Barry asks, itching the back of his neck as he surveys himself in his bathroom mirror.

“Yes,” Diana says from behind him as she brushes lint from his shoulders. “You really need to clean the lint screen in your dryer. It’s a fire hazard.”

“I don’t have a dryer. I use the laundry room on the third floor. What’s a lint screen?”

“Nevermind.”

“Okay.” Barry frowns and tugs on the tag sticking out from the collar of his shirt. “Bruises are black and blue, Di. I don’t want to look like a bruise.”

Diana bats his hands away from his neck and then rips out the tag so he won’t be tempted to scratch all night. “If you have bruises that are this shade of blue then we have more pressing issues to deal with than your wardrobe,” she tells him.

“What about a tie?”

“No tie.”

“I don’t look fat with a sweater over a button up?”

“Fat?” Diana repeats, finally meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Barry, you’re solid muscle.”

He crinkles his nose. “Arthur said I put on a few pounds after Christmas.”

“Arthur doesn’t brush his hair, what does he know?”

Barry guffaws. “I’m going to tell him you said that.”

“Next time he calls you fat send him my way and I’ll tell him myself,” she retorts. Barry grins. “Now put your hands down and let me look at you.” Barry obeys. Diana studies his reflection in the mirror. “Yes,” she decides. “This is perfect.”

When she glances up at his face again, she sees that his smile has faded. He is staring at his reflection with furrowed eyebrows. She can see the insecurity lurking in his eyes, and her heart twists in her chest.

“What do _you_ think?” she asks him.

He smoothes his hands over the front of his sweater. “I think I like it. I hope Iris likes it.” He tugs absently on the collar of his sweater. “I hope she likes me.”

“If she doesn’t, it’s her loss.”

“I guess,” he mumbles.

“Barry, look at me,” Diana says softly, grasping his shoulders and turning him around to face her. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Just be yourself.”

“Everyone always says that,” he says, fidgeting beneath her hands. “But myself is weird.” He screws up his face in a frown. “See? I can’t even talk right.”

“You speak fine,” she tells him. “And you’re not weird. You’re brilliant, and kind, and handsome, and brave, and any woman would be lucky to go on a date with you.”

He smiles. “Flatterer.”

“Truth-teller,” she corrects. She tugs on his arm. “Let’s go see what Steve thinks.”

When they get out into the living room, Steve is sprawled across the couch and shouting at the TV. “Oh come on, play some defense!”

“Steve,” Diana says.

Steve twists toward her voice. His gaze settles on her and then shifts to Barry, and he whistles. “Looking good, Bar.”

Barry flushes slightly. “Really?”

“Hell yeah,” Steve says, getting to his feet. “That blue looks good on you. And your hair looks great.”

He winks at Diana. She tries not to smile.

“It’s okay with no tie?” Barry asks, fidgeting with the front of his shirt.

“Definitely no tie,” Steve confirms as he crosses the room. “I’m not wearing one. It’d be too much.”

Barry frowns. “How come smart casual is so easy for _you_ to figure out? You weren’t even born in this century.”

“I just wear whatever Diana tells me to wear,” Steve says, wrapping his arm around Diana’s waist and leaning forward to brush a kiss across her cheek.

Diana leans into his embrace. He’s lying—she never picks out his clothes. But she’s certainly not going to tell Barry that.

Barry visibly relaxes. “Okay. Cool. So it’s not just me.”

“Definitely not just you,” Steve says. And then he reaches out and smacks Barry’s hands away from his collar. “Quit it. You’re going to stretch the neck of the sweater out.”

“What do I do with my hands?” Barry whines.

“Hold one of hers?” Diana suggests.

Barry blushes a brilliant shade of red. “On the first _date_?”

“Probably best not to tell him about our first date,” Steve mutters to Diana.

Diana bites her lip around a smile. Barry looks between them. “Wait, am I supposed to hold her hand?” he demands, his voice rising. His eyes widen. “Am I supposed to _kiss_ her?”

“Don’t you want to kiss her?” Steve asks with a laugh.

Barry throws up his hands. “Of _course_ I want to kiss her. But what if she doesn’t want to kiss _me?_ How will I know?”

“You’ll know,” Diana assures him. “And if you don’t, then just ask.”

“I think I need an instruction manual,” Barry mutters, raking a hand through his hair.

Diana and Steve both glance up at Barry’s hair, and then at each other. Steve grins. Diana shakes her head at him.

“Steve and I are going to go back to the hotel to change before we meet you at the museum,” Diana tells Barry. “Unless you need something else?”

Barry shakes his head. “No.” He shuffles his feet awkwardly. “Thanks, though. For flying all the way out here, I mean. And helping me pick out my clothes. I know it’s pathetic—”

“It’s not,” Diana interrupts.

“But people confuse me,” Barry finishes. “Women especially.” He glances at Steve. “Any last minute tips?”

Steve smiles. “Treat her like she’s special. That’s all there is to it.” He claps a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “You’re a superhero who saves the world, Bar. If you’re brave enough to do that, then you’re brave enough to do this.”

“Right,” Barry agrees.

Diana smiles. “Just be yourself.”

“Be myself,” Barry repeats. “Got it.”

Diana gives his arm one last squeeze before grabbing her bouquet from the kitchen counter. Then she takes Steve’s outstretched hand and lets him lead her out of the apartment before she’s tempted to fuss over Barry some more.

Once the door is shut behind them, Steve tugs Diana closer and lets go of her hand to drape his arm around her shoulders.

“You did good,” he says, brushing his lips against her temple. “He had neatly combed hair for a whole five minutes.”

Diana laughs. They stop in front of the elevator, and Steve presses the call button. As they wait for the elevator car to rise, Diana turns toward him. He smiles at her. She leans forward and kisses him, one hand sliding around to the back of his head and weaving through his hair.

When she leans back from his mouth, he looks a little dazed. “What was that for?”

“For flying halfway across the world to do this with me,” she answers. She strokes her hand over his cheek. “And for being so kind to him.”

Steve’s fingers curl around her waist. “He’s a good kid.”

The elevator arrives with a ding, but Diana ignores it. “You’re a good man,” she murmurs before kissing him again.

* * *

Barry stops outside the door of Iris’s apartment exactly one minute before he said he would be there.

He takes a deep breath, and shifts the bouquet of flowers from one hand to the other. “I’m a superhero,” he mutters to himself. “I save the world. I can do this. Just gotta be myself.” He smoothes a hand over his sweater and checks to make sure he looks okay. “Be myself,” he mutters again.

And then he takes another deep breath and knocks on the door. It swings open almost immediately, and Iris is suddenly framed in the doorway. “Barry,” she greets warmly. “Right on time.”

Barry’s mouth goes dry. He trails his eyes over her dress, realizes belatedly that it might be inappropriate to do that, and snaps his eyes back up to her face. “Hey,” he says sheepishly.

Iris glances down at the flowers in his hand. “Are those for me?”

Barry nods and holds them out to her. _Tell her she looks nice,_ he thinks. _Tell her you’re glad to be here. Tell her you’ve been thinking about this all week._ He can’t get his lips to move. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Thank you,” Iris says, taking the bouquet from his hand. She smiles up at him. “They’re beautiful.”

“You are,” he blurts out. He can feel his face heat up immediately with a blush. “I mean you’re uh...you look…” He shakes his head and clears his throat. “You look beautiful,” he finally says.

Iris’s smile widens. “Thank you.” Her eyes flit down over his body. “You don’t look so bad yourself. I like your sweater.”

A surge of heat rushes through Barry’s veins. He swallows, and then makes a mental note to buy Diana a gazillion pints of ice cream to thank her for insisting on the sweater.  

Iris swings the door open wider. “I just have to grab my coat. Give me one second.”

“Sure,” Barry says. The moment her back is turned, he leans against the frame of the door and takes a deep breath.

_You can do this,_ he thinks. _Just be yourself._

* * *

Within ten minutes of being introduced in the lobby of the art museum, Diana and Iris are as thick as thieves.

Steve is not surprised. Diana is charming as hell, and the only people she doesn’t get along with are those who are selfish or cruel. Iris is neither of those things. Iris, in fact, is a lot like Diana. They’re not carbon copies of each other by any means, but they seem to have a lot in common. Their interest in art and history and culture, for one thing. They share a sense of humor and a seemingly innate kindness, too.

They are also both very fond of Barry.

That’s one thing Steve is kind of surprised about. After a year of watching the speedster pine over Iris from afar, he had worried that maybe Iris wasn’t as interested in Barry as Barry was in her. Fussing over their friends is usually Diana’s department, and Steve has never been the overprotective type. But the first time he meets Iris, he is sorely tempted to shake her hand a little harder than normal and say, _If you hurt him I will kill you._

As it turns out, he shouldn’t have worried. It could be because he’s a spy and so he reads people well, but Iris’s feelings seem clear and unmistakable. She likes Barry. A lot _._  

Despite Diana’s obvious regard for the younger woman, she does not monopolize the conversation as they move through the museum. She repeatedly and smoothly pulls Barry into their discussions. Steve helps when he can. On more than one occasion, Barry and Iris wander ahead into a different gallery, lost in conversation, and Steve finds himself lagging behind with Diana.

“I like her,” Diana says quietly during one such occasion.

“Me too,” Steve replies.

After they’ve finished wandering through all the exhibits and are back in the lobby, Diana and Iris disappear into the bathroom. Barry hovers close to Steve, his hands shoved in his pockets. Steve suspects it’s because he’s vibrating with nervousness.

“Do you think they’re talking about me in there?” the speedster whispers.

“Probably,” Steve says with a shrug.

Barry turns to look at him with wide eyes. “Good stuff?”

Steve smirks. “You think Diana’s capable of saying anything about you that isn’t good?”

“Well she doesn’t lie,” Barry says, casting a worried glance at the women’s bathroom door.

“Exactly,” Steve says. “So it’s probably all good stuff.”

Some of the anxiousness dissolves from Barry’s face. He smiles. “I love you too, man.”

They are stopped from further conversation by the appearance of a museum worker. “Good evening, gentleman. Would you like to hear about our membership opportunities?”

“No thanks,” Steve says politely. “We’re actually from out of town. We’re just waiting for my wife to finish in the bathroom.”

The museum worker smiles. “Enjoy your stay in Central City, then.”

“Thanks,” Steve says. The man wanders away. Steve glances over at Barry, and finds the speedster gaping at him. “What?” he says with a frown.

“Wife?” Barry says.

“What?” Steve says again.

Barry gestures at the retreating figure of the museum worker. “You just told that guy Diana is your wife.”

“Oh,” Steve says.

He hesitates, unsure about how to explain. It’s not like he and Diana’s marriage certificate is a secret. It’s public record. But they never formally announced it to the League. There was no need. Nothing had changed—they’d always been fully committed to each other, regardless of whether they had a piece of paper to prove it. They’d only made it official in order to make sharing assets and property and bank accounts easier. Yes, the avalanche of medical appointments after his gunshot wound had forced him and Diana to start referring to each other as _husband_ and _wife_ . Yes, she chooses to wear a ring that he picked out for her in a Cairo bazaar on the fourth finger of her left hand. But there’s nothing even remotely traditional about any of it. Steve likes that. He likes that they’ve hammered out their own version of _as long as you both shall live._

Of course, none of that matters to Barry.

“Wait a minute,” the speedster says, narrowing his eyes. “Did you guys get _married?!_ ” His voice is loud enough that a few people nearby turn their heads.

“Keep your voice down,” Steve hisses.

“I can’t believe you didn’t invite me to the wedding,” Barry hisses back.

“Barry—”

“How _dare_ you.”

“Barry—”

“I already had a toast planned! Diana would have _cried._ ”

“For god’s sake, Barry, will you just listen? We—”

That’s when the women’s bathroom door swings open. Diana and Iris reappear, both of them laughing about something. Barry rounds on them immediately. He glances at Iris, hesitates, and then turns toward Diana with a look of determination.

“Di.”

Diana lifts her eyebrows at his tone. “Barry?”

“Are you and Steve married?”

Diana glances at Steve. Steve shrugs apologetically. Diana turns her attention back to Barry. “Legally? Yes.”

“Oh my god,” Barry groans dramatically, slapping a hand over his heart. “I can’t believe this.”

“Barry?” Iris asks, reaching out to put her hand on his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re my best friends,” Barry says, gesturing at Diana and Steve. “My best friends in the whole world—well, except for Vic. And maybe Arthur. Definitely Clark. Maybe Bruce? Whatever. The point—” He pauses, sucks in an indignant breath, and shoves his index finger in Diana’s face. “The _point_ is that you guys got _married_ and you _didn’t invite me._ ”

“There was nothing to invite you to,” Diana says soothingly. “We didn’t have a wedding.”

Iris looks over at her in surprise. “Did you just go to the courthouse?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers so that Diana won’t have to lie.

Barry glances between them. “No wedding?”

“No wedding,” Diana confirms.

“Oh,” he says, deflating a little.

Diana smiles at him. “Honestly, Barry, did you really think we wouldn’t invite you? You’d be the first person on the guest list.”

Barry smiles goofily, clearly pleased by her admission. He glances over at Iris. “That’s cause nobody does the cupid shuffle better than me.”

"I don’t know, I’m pretty good,” Iris says with a smile. “We’ll have to compare notes sometime.”

Barry flushes. “I’d like that.”

Iris flushes too.

Steve gives Diana a look.

Diana smiles at his expression and loops her arm through his. “Shall we head out for dinner?”

* * *

After dinner, the couples say their goodbyes in front of the restaurant.

As Diana watches the younger pair stroll away—and smiles at a glimpse of Barry glancing awkwardly at Iris’s empty hand swinging not-so-casually by her side—Steve slips his arms around her waist.

“What do you think?” he murmurs in her ear.

“I think it went well,” she answers, leaning back into his chest. “I was worried that she only accepted his invitation to be kind, but she seems genuinely smitten.”

“Yeah, she’s got it bad,” Steve chuckles in her ear. “Think he’ll kiss her?”

“I think she’s hoping he will.” Diana turns in his arms. “I find myself thinking the same thing about you at the moment.”

He grins. They have barely touched each other all night. Diana did not want to make Barry and Iris uncomfortable. But Barry and Iris are gone now, and so when Steve bends forward to press his lips against hers, she arches into him and makes the most of it.

“I’ve been dying to do that all night,” he confesses when he pulls back. “You taste like chocolate.”

She laughs and smoothes her fingers over the collar of his shirt. “Thank you for doing this with me.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to keep thanking me, Diana. It’s not like hanging out with you and Barry is a chore.”

“I know,” she says. “But you were excited to go to Le Caveau tonight.”

He shrugs. “We can go there anytime. Barry’s big date is a once-in-a-lifetime thing.” He frowns. “Well, hopefully not _once_ in a lifetime. But you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” she agrees. She fiddles with his collar again. “You know, Central City’s oldest jazz club is about six blocks that way.” She tips her head to the right. “I haven’t the slightest idea if it’s as good as Le Caveau, but we could find out.”

Steve smiles at her. “When did you research Central City’s jazz scene?”

“While you were snoring on the plane.”

He looks offended. “I don’t snore.”

“Yes you do,” she says, laughing. She strokes her fingers along his jaw. “Not all the time. Just when you’re very tired.”

He frowns. “Well you snore too.”

“No I don’t.”

For a split second, he looks as though he might try to convince her that she’s wrong. But then he sighs. “You’re right, you don’t.”

“I don’t know why you’re so insulted,” she says to him. “I think it’s endearing.”

He smirks at her. “Just another one of the many things you love about me, right?”

She rolls her eyes and pushes him gently in the direction of the jazz club.

“What are you rolling your eyes for?” he asks, draping his arm around her shoulders as they start to walk. “You’re the one who said it was endearing.”

“I am rolling my eyes at myself. I should have realized my response would swell your ego to the size of the Acropolis.”

He ducks his head toward her. “You know, my ego isn’t the only—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Steve Trevor,” she interrupts, elbowing him in the ribs. He grins at her, and she cannot help but grin back. “Twentieth century Steve never would have said that to me.”

“Definitely not,” he agrees with a laugh.

About a block later, he asks, “You ever miss twentieth century Steve?”

She looks over at him in surprise. “Do you?”

He considers her question. “No,” he decides. “I think living with you and working with you and loving you in this century has made me a better man.”

It’s an incredibly sweet thing to say, but before she can respond in kind he leans toward her and says, “Plus, having sex with you in this century is _divine._ ”

Diana casts her eyes toward the sky. “Hera help me, I’ve created a monster.”

Steve just laughs.

* * *

On the other side of the city, Barry and Iris come to a stop in front of her apartment door.

“Here we are,” Barry says lamely. His voice cracks a little. His palms are sweaty. His heart is racing faster than he thinks he can run, and he has to concentrate very, very hard to keep his hands from vibrating with nervousness. He’s had to concentrate on keeping still all night, and it’s distracting enough that he’s tripped over his own two feet at least a dozen times. _So_ embarrassing.

“I had a really good time tonight,” Iris says.

Barry looks up at her in surprise. He’d thought she was having a good time. He’d _hoped_ she was having a good time. But hearing her say it out loud without any sort of prompting is...well. Wow.

“I did too,” he says. The words are just on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t quite get them out. What if she says no? What if she’s just being nice? What if…?

_If you’re brave enough to save the world, you’re brave enough to do this._

He straightens in determination. “Maybe we could hang out again sometime.”

Iris smiles. “I’m free next Friday. How about then?”

Barry gapes at her. “Uh,” he says stupidly. “Yeah. That would be...yeah. Definitely. I’ll text you.”

“Great,” Iris says, smiling wider.

“Great,” Barry echoes.

He expects her to take the keys that are in her hand and put them in the lock, and then open her front door and say goodnight. But she doesn’t move. She just stands across from him in the hallway, still smiling while she fiddles with her keyring, and suddenly it hits him like a thunderbolt.

_Oh my god she wants me to kiss her._

He can’t. He should. Can he? Shit, he might pass out. _Shit._ He should kiss her. He should definitely kiss her. Right? Shit.

What would Steve do?

Steve would definitely kiss her. Steve’s probably kissing Diana right now. Well, Steve’s probably having sex with Diana right now, but Barry really doesn’t want to think about that. The only thing he lets himself imagine about Diana and Steve is them talking about how great he is.

_Focus, you asshat._

“I—” he starts. He stops abruptly, unsure what he was going to say. Iris stares at him. Barry takes a deep breath, and then moves a step closer to her.

She does not step back. Instead she tilts her body forward a little, her gaze darting momentarily down to his lips.

Her reaction makes him brave enough to reach up and trace his fingertips along her cheek. She does not shy back from his touch. She leans closer. Another surge of courage whips through his veins.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he confesses to her in a whisper.

“Oh yeah?” she says, the corners of her mouth lifting.

“Yeah,” he repeats. He glances down at her hands, zeroes in on the one that isn’t holding her keys, and reaches forward to weave their fingers together. He looks up at her again. “This too.”

A stunning smile blossoms across her face, and Barry forgets how to breathe. She scoots closer to him, erasing most of the remaining distance between them, and lifts her mouth upward invitingly. “Anything else?” she whispers.

He bends forward and kisses her before he can chicken out.

Her lips are soft. She smells amazing. Her hands smooth over his chest and then up around his neck, and for the first time in a very long time, Barry wishes that he could move slower instead of faster.

* * *

_April 2019_

Steve is sitting on the couch, watching the evening news and petting Leesi, when Barry texts him.

_Are you in your apartment?_

_Yeah._ Steve types back. _Why?_

_Is Diana home?_ Barry replies immediately.

Steve frowns. _Not yet. Why?_

About a minute later Barry’s voice says, “Sup dude?”

“Shit!” Steve yelps as he jumps in surprise. Leesi yowls, catapults out of his lap, and sprints down the hall and into the bedroom.

“Aw,” Barry says, staring sadly after the cat. “I was hoping for some dragon queen cuddles.”

“What the hell, man,” Steve says, glaring up at the speedster. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” Barry says with a grin. He’s clearly not sorry.

Steve reaches for the remote and turns the TV off. “What are you doing here?”

The smile drops off Barry’s lips. He glances around the apartment. “Is Diana here?”

“No. She stopped at the store on her way home from work. Why?”

Barry twists his hands together and shifts from one foot to the other. “I uh…” He notices the open laptop sitting on the coffee table and nods at it. “Are you working? I can come back later.”

Steve shuts the laptop and then gives the speedster a look. “What do you need, Barry?”

Barry paces back and forth next to the couch for a few moments before he finally stops and blurts out, “Friday is my sixth date with Iris.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly. “That’s good, right?”

Barry rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. She invited me over to her apartment for dinner. She wants to cook for me.”

“Well that’s nice. Kind of romantic, right?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s just…” He sighs.

Steve lifts his eyebrows. “Is she a bad cook or something?”

“No. Well, I don’t actually know. But she’s probably great. I mean, she’s good at everything else. She’s perfect.”

Steve frowns. “I don’t understand.”

Barry’s face flushes a deep crimson. “She lives alone, Steve. And we uh...we haven’t…” He weaves his fingers together and shakes them in Steve’s direction.

Steve grimaces. “Please stop doing that with your hands.”

Barry drops his hands to his sides. “Sorry.”

“So you haven’t slept together,” Steve supplies.

Barry shakes his head. “No.”

“Have you talked about it?”

“Yeah.”

“Does she want to?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yeah.”

Steve frowns. “So then what’s the problem?” It suddenly occurs to him that Barry might be a virgin. “Wait. Are you…?”

“I know how sex works,” Barry cuts him off. He rakes his hand through his hair. “I just uh…I just want to make sure that she...you know. Has a good time.”

Steve blinks. Living with Diana for over a year has fixed most of his twentieth century hang-ups about sex. But there’s a big difference between discussing sex with a sinfully beautiful goddess who he’s madly in love with, and explaining how to get a woman off to a blushing and clearly nervous speedster.

“If it’s weird that I’m asking—” Barry starts.

“It’s fine,” Steve cuts him off.

Barry looks relieved. “Good. Because I really don’t think it’s something I should Google.”

Steve makes a face. “Definitely don’t do that.”

Barry plops down into a nearby chair, scoots to the edge, and folds his hands together. His expression is expectant, almost hopeful, and if Steve wasn’t so busy trying to figure out how to explain the female orgasm to a kid he’s always thought of as his little brother, he might think it was kind of adorable.

“Okay,” Steve says, pushing away any lingering awkwardness. “First things first...”

* * *

When Diana opens her front door, she is surprised to see Barry shooting out of a chair in her living room as if he has suddenly caught fire.

“Diana!” he practically shouts. His face is as red as a tomato. “You’re home!” He looks down at Steve, who is smirking up at him from the couch. “Diana’s here,” Barry says.

“Yeah,” Steve says dryly. “I can see that.”

“Barry,” Diana greets, kicking the door shut behind her. “This is a nice surprise.”

Barry zooms across the apartment and relieves Diana of the shopping bags she is carrying. “How was work? How was the store? How are you?” he asks in a rapid staccato as he sets the bags on the counter.

Diana casts a glance at Steve. He smirks at her. “Everything is fine,” Diana says. When Barry turns to face her again, she smiles. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

The only word that could possibly describe the ensuing look on Barry’s face is panic.

“Uh,” he sputters.

“I called him,” Steve says smoothly. He gets to his feet, and then gestures at his laptop on the coffee table. “I needed help recalling details from our last mission for a report. I figured Barry could help.”

“Yeah,” Barry says, nodding vigorously. “What he said.”

Diana glances between them. If Steve were working on an A.R.G.U.S. report, his laptop would be open. If he needed help remembering details, Barry would be the last person he would ask. And even if he had decided to ask Barry, he definitely would have insisted on talking over the phone instead of in person.

Steve is lying.

But he is also smiling at her, his eyes dancing in amusement, and he doesn’t have to say anything for her to understand. _I’ll tell you later,_ his expression seems to say.

She smiles at Barry. “Steve hates writing reports, you know,” she says as she makes her way toward the pile of grocery bags on the counter. “They make him very cranky.”

Barry glances at Steve. “You get cranky?”

Steve smirks. “I hate paperwork as much as Diana hates Louvre department meetings.”

“I don’t _always_ hate department meetings,” Diana says. She gives him a suggestive look as she starts to unpack one of the grocery bags.

“You want me to tell him you don’t mind meetings if we sext during them?” Steve asks her in Greek.

“No,” she laughs.

“Do you guys flirt in other languages in front of everyone you know, or just me?” Barry asks.

Steve snorts.

Diana smiles. “Would you like to stay for dinner, Barry?”

“Nah, I should go,” he answers. “I’ve got to…” His face flushes. “Do stuff.” He glances at Steve. “Thanks.” His eyes widen, and he looks back at Diana. “For letting me help with the report, I mean,” he explains in a rush. “I like being helpful.”

“No problem,” Steve says. “If you think of anything else, just call me.”

Barry grins. “Yeah, okay. Thanks. Nice to see you, Di.”

He gives her a quick peck on the cheek and then he’s gone. Diana is stunned that he turned down a free meal, and desperately curious about the real reason for his visit. She stares after him, frozen in surprise.

Steve moves to her side and slides his hand along her waist. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she says, turning to face him.

He gives her a quick kiss. “Good day?”

“It wasn’t terrible.” She glances at the terrace door that Barry left slightly ajar. “You didn’t really ask for his help with a report, did you?”

“No.”

“So why was he here?”

Steve smirks. “He needed some advice on a personal matter.”

“Oh.” She tilts her head. “Are you able to tell me what the personal matter entails? Because if it’s something that he wants to keep private, you don’t need to explain.”

“I asked him if I was allowed to tell you what we talked about,” Steve assures her. “He said I could as long as he wasn’t around when I did. I told him that was dumb since you would probably have way better advice than me, but he nearly had an aneurysm when I suggested it. So I dropped it.”

Diana frowns. “What’s going on?”

“Iris invited him over to her apartment on Friday to cook him dinner. He thinks it’s going to be their first time together.”

Barry’s blushing awkwardness and Steve’s amused smirk suddenly make way more sense. “I see,” she says. “Is it his first time ever?”

“I’m not sure. He doesn’t seem totally clueless, but I don’t think he’s got a lot of experience.”

“Did he have a lot of questions?”

“He wanted tips on how to make sure she finished.” Steve smiles. “You going to call him sweet for the thousandth time?”

“No,” Diana says, smiling back. “But he is.” She strokes her hand through Steve’s hair. “If he wants to do it well, he made the right choice in asking you.”

“He didn’t have much of a choice. Everyone else in the League probably would’ve made fun of him or refused to answer.” He grins. “Can you imagine him and Clark trying to have a conversation like that?”

“No,” Diana laughs. She leans closer to him. “But that’s not what I meant when I said you were the right choice.”

Steve lifts his eyebrows. “Oh,” he says. And then his lips bend into a wicked smirk. “What did you mean?” he asks.

Diana knows that he’s realized what she meant. He just wants her to say it because he’s fishing for a compliment. She figures she might as well take advantage of the opportunity to scandalize him.

“I meant that you’re very good at making me come,” she says matter-of-factly. “So you probably had some good advice for him.”

Steve’s eyes widen a little just like she hoped they would, but he recovers quickly. He presses her back against the kitchen island, and she feels the edge of the counter dig into the small of her back. He finds the zipper on the side of her skirt and tugs playfully on the fastener.

“I’m good, huh?”

“Very good.”

“You think you might even call me necessary?”

Diana couldn’t contain her smile if she tried. “I could be persuaded.”

The sound of her zipper sliding down echoes between them. Diana feels an immediate rush of heat move through her body. Steve holds her gaze as he tugs on the leather fabric of her skirt, and it drops to the floor. She steps out of it and nudges it to the side, but she does not step out of her high heels. Steve likes this particular pair, and she likes the way he looks at her when she’s wearing them.

“I can be very persuasive,” he murmurs.

She lifts her mouth toward his. “Prove it,” she whispers.

* * *

On Saturday morning, Iris West wakes to an empty bed.

It takes her a second to realize that she’s alone, because she’s half asleep and still pretty tired since she and Barry were up so late.

The sudden flush of memory that races hotly over her skin is enough to shock the rest of her sleepiness away. She passes her hand over the rumpled sheets next to her and finds that they’re cold. When she glances over her shoulder at the clock on the bedside table, she sees that it’s 9:30.

Where’s Barry?

A breeze caresses the bare skin of her back, and she turns around in surprise. Barry is now standing next to the bed, fully dressed and holding two cups and a white paper bag. Iris frowns. Was he there before and she just hadn’t noticed because she wasn’t fully awake? Or did he walk in while her back was turned? She’d thought for sure she was alone. And she could’ve _sworn_ she felt a breeze.

“Iris,” Barry says, sounding startled. “You’re awake.” And then his eyes widen, almost as if in panic. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to realize you were gone,” she answers, sitting up and pulling the sheet with her to cover her chest. She glances at the bag in his hands. “You left?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I thought I’d make it back before you woke up. I wanted to surprise you. Breakfast in bed, you know? But I’m a terrible cook. Like, I’d have set your apartment on fire, and that’s not a great way to get off on the right foot with your neighbors or your landlord, and I was kind of hoping I’d be spending more time here in the future so I—”

He stops abruptly and blushes all the way up to the roots of his tousled hair. “Uh,” he says. “I mean...well. Here.” He holds out the bag.

Iris takes it, reads the emblem on the side, and then lifts her eyes to his. “Scotty’s?”

“Yeah. You said they were your favorite bagels, right? And here.” He holds out one of the cups. “Vanilla latte.”

“From Cup of Joe,” she notes in surprise after glancing at the symbol on the cup.

“Well yeah. Best latte in town.” When she looks up at him, it’s just in time to see him furrow his eyebrows. “That’s what you said, right?”

Iris stares at him. She’d told him she likes vanilla lattes from Cup of Joe during their first date, while they were walking home after dinner with his friends. They’d passed by the coffeeshop and she’d mentioned it in an attempt to make conversation. After that they’d started to discuss their favorite places in the city to eat, and that’s when she’d mentioned Scotty’s.

“Scotty’s is on the opposite side of the city from Cup of Joe,” she realizes out loud.

“Yeah.”

“So how’d you make it to both places?”

He shrugs. “I got up early.”

Iris blinks at him. The fact that he remembered an offhand remark from their first date is impressive enough. But knowing that he’d gotten up early after a late night just to crisscross the city so she could eat her favorite breakfast in bed is probably the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for her.

“Oh,” she breathes.

He smiles at her shyly, almost sheepishly. “Too much?” he asks.

There’s insecurity threading through his voice, and Iris feels her heart do a somersault in her chest. She leans forward and kisses him, her free hand on the side of his face.

“You’re a keeper, Barry Allen,” she murmurs afterward.

“Really?” he says, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Definitely,” she replies, unable to resist laughing a little. She taps the bag sitting between them so that the paper crinkles. “I don’t think I’m hungry right now, though.”

He frowns. “Oh. Okay.”

“Maybe you could help me work up an appetite,” she suggests.

He blinks at her. She lets the sheet fall away from her body, and watches as his expression morphs from confusion to desire. “Oh,” he says, his eyes roving over her. And then he nods fervently. “I can _definitely_ do that.”

* * *

_June 2019_

When Barry sprints into the Batcave on a very hot Saturday night in late June, he expects to find Alfred tinkering with some technology or Bruce brooding over his monitors. Instead he finds Diana and Steve bent over a table, studying what appears to be a hand-drawn map.

“Hey!” he shouts excitedly. “I didn’t know you guys were in town!”

Steve jumps a foot off the ground in surprise. Diana smiles at Steve’s reaction but doesn’t seem surprised herself.

“Fucking _shit,_ Barry,” Steve mutters. “Quit doing that, would you? You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

Diana’s smile deepens. Steve notices her amusement and huffs at her. She winks at him. “I’m in town for a work conference,” she says, turning toward Barry. “What are you doing here?”

“Got a problem with my suit,” Barry answers. “Thought maybe Bruce could fix it. What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Diana replies.

“Artifact locations,” Steve says at the same time.

They look at each other in surprise. Barry glances between them, but they don’t pay him any attention. They seem to be having an entire conversation without saying a word. It isn’t the first time Barry has wondered if they’ve somehow figured out how to speak to each other telepathically. And then he realizes what Steve just said.

“Wait, _artifacts?_ ” he says. “Like, artifacts for the immortality spell?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers. Diana presses her lips together.

Barry moves closer and looks down at the map. “Mount McKinley,” he reads from one faded corner. “Isn’t that the mountain they renamed Denali? In Alaska, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve confirms. Diana continues to say nothing.

Barry glances between them. “Is there an artifact there?”

“We’re not sure if it’s actually on the mountain, or if it’s somewhere in the surrounding national park,” Steve answers. “Constantine gave us the names of some people in a few local villages who might know where we can find it.”

“Can I come?” Barry asks hopefully.

“No,” Diana answers.

“Sure,” Steve replies at the same time.

Once again, the couple stares at each other. The silence goes on a little too long, and Barry’s pretty sure he can sense some tension in the air. He laughs nervously. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you guys disagree,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood. “I feel like a scientist who just discovered a really rare bird or something.”

Neither of them smile. Barry shifts from one foot to the other. He’s surprised by Diana’s refusal, and he’s not sure how to interpret the look on her face.

“If you think I’ll get in the way...” he starts. There’s an odd twisting sensation in his chest as he says it, a rush of emotion that feels like a mix between fear and rejection, and it must bleed into his voice a little because Diana immediately snaps her gaze toward him.

“You are never in the way, Barry.”

The tension in his chest eases a little. “Okay, so why can’t I come? Clark went with you guys a few weeks ago.”

“At Constantine’s suggestion. We didn’t ask him.”

“What about Arthur? He went on your first trip.”

“Because the artifact belonged to the royal family of an island nation that the Atlanteans have diplomatic ties with.”

“So I’m getting punished for not having diplomatic ties?”

“It’s not a punishment—”

“I want to help,” Barry insists, cutting her off. “Why won’t you let me help?”

Diana looks over at Steve, who has watched their entire exchange wordlessly. Barry turns toward the spy too, but Steve is focused on Diana. When he finally looks away, Barry gives him a pleading look.

“Can we have the room for a second?” Steve asks, apparently unaffected by Barry’s puppy dog eyes.

Barry pouts a little. “Sure,” he says sullenly. He shuffles toward the hallway that leads to the elevator.  

He stops as soon as he’s around the corner and out of sight. It’s not really a lie—Steve asked for the room, and Barry gave it to him. Sure, Steve probably meant _go upstairs and out of earshot so we can have some privacy,_ but he didn’t say that, and Barry didn’t say he wouldn’t eavesdrop.

For a moment, though, he thinks maybe he’s too far away to hear anything. The room is silent. But then he hears Steve’s voice say, “You don’t want him to go?”

“No,” Diana answers.

Barry can’t help but feel a stab of hurt at her response.

“Why not?” Steve asks.

“Because it could be dangerous.”

“Diana, he’s the Flash. He’s a member of the Justice League. He does dangerous stuff all the time. It’s never bothered you before.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

“Because it’s for us.”

Barry can’t resist the urge to peek quickly around the edge of the wall. Diana is standing a few feet away from Steve, her arms folded over her chest. Steve is watching her, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“When he works with the League, or on his own as the Flash, he’s doing it to help other people,” Diana continues as Barry ducks back out of sight. “If—Zeus forbid—something were to happen to him, I could at least find comfort in the fact that it was in service of the greater good. But this is not for the greater good, Steve. This is for us. We cannot ask him to sacrifice his life for our sake.”

“Whoa, who said anything about sacrificing his life?” Steve replies. “We don’t even know for sure that this will be dangerous.”

“Magical artifacts are _always_ dangerous.”

“Our first two missions went off without a hitch—”

“And the last one ended with me nearly killing you.”

Barry frowns. Is that some kind of euphemism? Or did Diana actually almost kill Steve?

“I know this will be the first time we’ve been out since then,” Steve says after a brief pause. “But your training with Constantine is going well. And he said there’s no indication that this artifact has a protector like the guardian.”

Barry crinkles his nose. _Who the hell is the guardian?_ He can’t resist the urge to peek around the corner again. Steve has moved—he’s closed the distance between himself and Diana, and he’s reaching up to brush one of his hands along her cheek. Barry rolls his eyes. God forbid they go more than five minutes without touching each other.   

“You’re not going to hurt him, angel,” Steve says softly.

_Angel?_ Barry mouths as he ducks back into the hallway. What is that, some kind of lovey-dovey nickname? Why do they have to be so damn cute all the time? And why on earth would Steve need to reassure Diana that she isn’t going to hurt anyone?

“But someone else might,” Diana insists. “Something else. And the only thing worse than losing him would be losing you.”

Any trace of anger Barry felt toward Diana evaporates. He has never wanted to hug her so badly in his entire life.

“I know you love him,” Steve starts.

“It’s more than that,” Diana cuts him off. “He’s just a _child,_ Steve. He should be eating pizza and playing video games and planning his future with Iris. He shouldn’t have to put on that suit and bear the weight of the world.”

Barry closes his eyes. Sometimes he wonders if his mom sent him Diana just so he wouldn’t forget what it was like to be loved so fiercely and unconditionally.

“He’s already given the world so much,” Diana continues. “I don’t want to ask him for more.”

“But you didn’t ask him,” Steve points out. “He offered.”

“Of _course_ he offered. He’s Barry. He’s _always_ going to offer.”

“You think he didn’t mean it?”

“No, I know he meant it. I just don’t…” She sighs. “Just because he wants to do something doesn’t mean he should.”

Barry peeks around the corner again.

“Diana, you can’t make decisions for him,” Steve says. Diana shakes her head, but Steve isn’t finished. “If you tell him no because you think you know better than he does what’s best for him, then you’re no different than I was when I stopped you from killing Ludendorff.”

Diana looks away from him, the frustration clear on her face. Barry ducks back into the hallway before she spots him. For a minute, nobody says anything.

“You told me you didn’t want to make decisions for other people,” Steve says.

“I said I didn’t want to make decisions for _you._ ”

“How is he any different? You might love us in different ways, but you still love us both. And controlling the people you love isn’t who you are.”

There’s a long pause. Barry fidgets impatiently during the length of it.

“Fine,” Diana says at last.

Barry’s heart leaps in his chest.

“Diana...” Steve murmurs.

“You’re right,” she says quietly. “He should decide.”

Barry leans around the corner just in time to see Steve pull Diana into his arms. Barry figures they’re about two minutes from coming to find him to tell him the news, so he dashes down the hall and up into the house.

Five minutes later, Diana and Steve walk into the kitchen.

Barry swallows a mouthful of Cheetos from his perch on the counter. “So? Can I come?”

Diana nods. “Yes. If you’d like.”

Barry leaps off the counter, zooms across the room, and tackles her into a tight hug. “Thanks, Di.”

“Only if you’re careful,” she murmurs in his ear.

He smiles into her shoulder. “I will be. I promise.”

* * *

The night before Barry goes to Alaska with Diana and Steve, he gets into a fight with Iris.

It’s their first real fight. It starts innocently enough, but it builds in intensity and volume until Iris puts an exclamation point on the end by striding out of Barry’s apartment and slamming the door behind her. Barry stares at the closed door, surprised and angry and hurt and confused all at once. He doesn’t know what to do, so he runs all the way to his favorite food truck in Venice Beach and devours fifteen barbacoa tacos.

He calls Iris after that. She sends him straight to voicemail.

He sprints to Chicago and eats two deep dish pizzas, then runs to Philadelphia for five cheesesteaks. He texts Iris but she doesn’t answer, so he runs to New York City for an ice cream sundae the size of his head.

When he gets back to Central City, he lays on his couch and eats his entire emergency stash of Flamin Hot Cheetos while he watches reruns of _Law and Order: SVU_. He falls asleep wondering if Iris is watching the marathon too since SVU is her favorite show.

The next morning, he runs to Gotham to meet Diana and Steve at Bruce’s. He wants to call Iris, but it’s early and he doesn’t want to wake her. He settles for sending a text instead. She doesn’t answer. He tells himself it’s because she’s still sleeping, but he doesn’t really believe it.

He’s never had a girlfriend before, so he has nothing to compare their fight to. He thinks about all the relationships he has a front row seat to—Diana and Steve, Lois and Clark—but he can’t remember ever seeing them fight. He knows they probably do, but he can’t help but wonder if their fights are different. Does Diana ever storm away from Steve? Does Lois ever refuse to text Clark back?

Anxiety claws at his chest. What if he ruined the relationship? What if Iris falls in love with some other dude while they’re not speaking? What if she never speaks to him again and they break up?

The uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach is beginning to make him nauseous, so he starts looking for Diana. She’ll know what to do. She’ll know how he can fix it. Plus she gives good hugs, and he could really use a good hug right now.

He finds her in Bruce’s kitchen, staring down into a mug of tea. Steve is not with her, and she hasn’t noticed Barry’s presence, so the speedster catches a glimpse of her completely unguarded expression. It steals the breath right out of his lungs. She looks…tired. Worried. Sad.

Barry has never seen her look this way. He thinks back to the discussion he eavesdropped on, and the pain in her voice as she said _He shouldn’t have to put on that suit and bear the weight of the world._ He wonders if anyone has ever looked at her and said _Neither should you._

Any thought of asking for her help evaporates. He takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders, and then bounds into the room and says brightly, “Good morning favorite person on the planet!”

Her face slides immediately into a smile. “Good morning Barry.” She gets to her feet. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Sit your goddess behind back in that chair this instant!” he exclaims. Diana blinks at him in surprise. “ _I_ am making _you_ breakfast,” he explains. He leans toward her with a slight frown. “You like pancakes, right?”

“I do,” she confirms with a smile. “And they are Steve’s favorite.”

“Perfect!” Barry says. He starts rifling through the cupboards to look for what he needs.

“Do you know how to make pancakes?” Diana asks innocently over the slamming of cupboard doors.

“Of _course_ I know how to make pancakes,” Barry scoffs. “Iris taught me.”

There is a pang in his chest at the thought of his girlfriend, but Barry refuses to let it darken his mood. Not today. Not right now. Right now, his job is to make Diana’s life easier. He’s going to make her breakfast. He’s going to make her laugh on their flight to Alaska. He’s going to get that artifact for her, and then he’s going to buy her and Steve dinner and ice cream.

But first he needs to find the flour. Who the hell has this many cupboards in their kitchen? Damn Bruce and all his money. Do billionaires even buy flour? Is their flour mixed with golden flakes?

“What are you looking for?” Diana asks, her voice tinged with amusement.

Barry sighs and turns to face her. “I just want some flour.”

Diana smiles. “Let me help.”

* * *

Barry is surprised by how easy it is for them to get their hands on the artifact.

They find it at their first stop, a tiny village with a population of 219. Diana and Steve spend a long time talking to a young couple who know Constantine. Barry hovers nearby and half-listens to their conversation. He’s not sure why Diana was so worried about bringing him along. Was she afraid he might trip on a tree root and fall on his face? Or concerned that he might die of boredom? Because both of those things seem far more likely than any sort of real danger.

Eventually they’re escorted to a small building and presented with the artifact—an ancient-looking bison skull—by a very, very old woman who speaks to Diana in a language that Barry doesn’t understand.

“So they’re just going to let us have it?” he asks when the elderly woman hobbles off and Diana turns toward them with the skull in her hands.

“It’s on loan,” Diana answers. “I promised to return it.”

“But there’s a catch, isn’t there?” Steve says.

Diana nods. “Constantine’s book was only partially correct. The skull does have magical properties, but only if it is doused in glacier water from the mountain just before whatever ceremony it’s used in.”

“Let’s go get some glacier water then,” Barry says. “The mountain isn’t far.”

“It has to be a specific glacier,” Diana replies. She casts a glance at Steve. “It’s the Harper Glacier.”

Steve’s eyebrows gather into a frown. “The one that sits just under the peak?”

“Yes.”

Barry glances between them. “Wait, the peak of the mountain?” he says. “What does that mean? How high up is the glacier?”

“16,000 feet, I believe,” Diana answers.

Steve sighs.

Diana leans toward him. “Even in the summer, temperatures will be low at that elevation. There are storms in the forecast. And the winds…”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “But none of that really matters anyway because of acclimatization.”

Barry frowns. “Uh, guys? We don’t have a whole lot of mountains in Central City, so I’m a little lost.”

Steve looks over at him. “I can’t go with you. I can’t fly and I can’t run as fast as you, so it’d take us weeks to get up to the glacier.”

“Then I’ll run you up there,” Barry says with a shrug. “Or Diana can fly you.”

“My lungs won’t be able to handle the change in elevation,” Steve says, shaking his head. “When humans climb mountains like Denali, they spend days slowly acclimating their lungs to the altitude. If you ran me up there and then I tried to breathe, I could have a stroke.”

“Yeah, I’m definitely not okay with that,” Barry says. “You’re not allowed to go.”

“You two head back to the Fox,” Diana says. “I’ll go up to the glacier and—”

“No way,” Barry cuts her off. “I’m going with you.”

“Barry—”

“You said I could help.”

“You have.”

“By following you around while you talk to people? Yeah right. _This_ is the part where I can help.”

Diana doesn’t look annoyed, per se, but she doesn’t look happy either. “That is very kind of you, Barry, but I don’t need help. It won’t take me long.”

“It won’t take _us_ long because _you’re_ not going alone,” Barry insists. “There’s no way park rangers let people climb mountains on their own.”

“I am not a person,” Diana says, smirking a little. “And I have no intention of climbing.”

“Well _I_ have no intention of twiddling my thumbs on the Fox like some kind of lazy bum while _you_ do all the hard work,” Barry says. He glances at Steve. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Steve says, clearly amused.

Diana glances at him. Steve holds her gaze. A moment passes, and then Barry sighs. “You know, I used to think it was annoying when you guys talked to each other in Greek, but I think your telepathic love connection is worse.”

Steve snorts. Even Diana smiles a little.

“I’m coming,” Barry says to her decisively. “I’m helping.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“I’ll be here,” Steve says to her, tapping the comm in his ear.

She nods again, and leans forward to kiss him briefly. Then she turns toward Barry. “Are you ready?”

“Hell yeah,” he says.

* * *

“Holy shit,” Barry gasps.

Diana smiles over at him. They are standing side by side on the peak of Denali. The wind is whipping her hair around her face and she can tell that it’s cold, but she does not feel it the way Steve would if he were here. If Barry can feel it, he doesn’t say so. He also doesn’t comment on the fact that she is holding onto his arm tightly, just to make sure he doesn’t lose his footing or get blown off the peak by the wind. He may be the fastest man alive, but he is also one of the clumsiest when he’s not concentrating.

“I mean...wow,” Barry says. “Just. Wow.”

“Quite a view, isn’t it?”

“Understatement of the year,” he snorts. “I feel like I can see the whole world from up here. This is incredible.”

Diana stares out at the horizon. “It is breathtaking.”

Barry glances over at her. “Have you been up here before?”

“Once,” she admits. “I went through a mountain phase in the forties.”

Barry turns toward her. “What the hell is a _mountain phase?_ ”

She laughs. “I climbed all the mountains there were to climb. Everest and Kilimanjaro, Annapurna and Khuiten. The Alps and the Andes.”

“Climbed? Like the good old-fashioned way, on foot? No flying straight to the top?”

“No flying,” she confirms.

“That’s badass,” Barry says. She can’t help but smile. “What made you do that?”

Her smile fades. “World War II.” She swallows around a sudden lump in her throat. “I didn’t want to be around people for a while after it finished. I found that taking in the natural beauty of the world made me feel less hopeless.”

When she looks over at him, his expression is solemn. “I’m sorry people suck so bad, Di.”

She smiles and squeezes his arm. “You don’t suck, Barry. That’s enough for me.”

He beams at her, and then he shudders hard. “ _Shit_ it’s cold,” he mutters. “I feel like my body is going numb.”

“We should head down to the glacier so we can get back to the Fox,” she says. She gestures down the mountain. “We need to go that way.”

“Wait, look!” Barry exclaims, nudging her with his elbow. She follows the direction of his pointing and sees four brightly colored shapes moving slowly up the mountain.

“Climbers,” Diana says. “They’re going through the Autobahn.” And then she frowns. “It’s dangerous to do that in these conditions.”

“They look so tiny,” Barry says gleefully. “I feel like a kid looking at an ant hill.”

Before Diana can respond, there is a deafening crack in the air. Barry stiffens next to her. A moment later, a massive wave of snow starts to descend the mountain.

“It’s going to hit the climbers,” Barry says in horror.

Before Diana can tell him to stay put while she handles the rescue, Barry pulls out of her grasp and is gone, a red blur zigzagging toward the rapidly moving avalanche. Diana launches into the sky, ready to drop down and grab at least one of the climbers, but she hesitates. She doesn’t want to get in Barry’s way, and she doesn’t want to distract him. She’s fast, but he’s faster—he can do this way quicker than she can. Despite the fear pounding through her veins, she stays put.

Quick as lightning, Barry plucks each of the climbers from the side of the mountain and runs them out of reach of the avalanche. The nervous tension in Diana’s chest loosens with each successful save, and dissipates almost entirely once Barry starts his final ascent back up the mountain.

As he races parallel to the avalanche, he starts to slow down. Diana’s heart shoots into her throat all over again. Is he starting to feel the effects of the cold? Are his molecules slowing down so that he’s not able to move as fast?

Barry reaches out as he runs and trails his hand along the wall of snow in fascination. Diana wants to yell at him that now is not the time to be curious about avalanches, but before she can he glances up at her with a wide grin. He gives her a thumbs-up, and she can’t bring herself to do anything but smile back at him.

And then he trips.

Diana watches it happen as if it’s in slow motion: His foot catches on a jagged outcropping of rock and twists so violently that she swears she can hear the snap of his bones breaking even from the air. She _knows_ she can hear his scream of pain. His body goes airborne from the momentum of his run, and Diana watches in horror as he catapults straight into the avalanche.

* * *

When Diana bursts into the Fox’s sick bay with an unconscious Barry in her arms, Steve is ready with a stack of blankets and towels.

“Is the suit wet?” Steve asks as she moves toward the gurney.

“No. It dries itself.”

Her voice is clipped and cold. She sets Barry down on the gurney gently, and then reaches up to slide his mask carefully off of his head.

“The heart rate monitor—”

“I’ve got it,” she cuts him off.

She rustles through the equipment at the side of the bed. Steve busies himself draping blankets and towels over Barry’s body, leaning across the bed to tuck the fabric up and under his legs and torso. When the heart rate monitor starts beeping, he glances up.

Diana has her hand on Barry’s neck, her fingers pressed against the pulsepoint beneath his jaw as if she doesn’t trust the monitor on his finger. She’s staring at the screen next to the bed. According to the readings, Barry’s heart is racing.

“That’s normal for him,” Steve says. “His file—”

“I know,” she cuts him off again.

Steve blinks at her for a moment, taken aback. It’s not like her to be abrupt, even when she’s worried, but if anyone could worry her enough to make her short-tempered, it’s Barry. Steve shakes it off and goes back to tucking Barry in.

Diana spends a few more seconds staring at the readings on the monitor, and then she moves to the bottom of the bed and untucks one of Barry’s legs.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks her.

“He tripped on a rock,” she answers as she slides Barry’s boot off. “I think he broke his ankle.”

“Well that explains why he didn’t just run through the avalanche,” Steve says. “Though that might have been hard for him to do, since the cold probably would’ve slowed him down.”

Diana ignores him and bends over Barry’s foot. Steve watches her and wonders what exactly happened up on that mountain. Does she somehow think this is her fault? Is that why she’s so upset? Or is it just because it’s Barry?

He moves to the top of the bed and wraps Barry’s shoulders and head in some more blankets. He doesn’t offer to help Diana with Barry’s ankle because she doesn’t need it; between her voracious reading habit and a century’s worth of battle experience, she’s the most capable field medic in the League.

He finishes cocooning the top half of Barry’s body around the same time Diana finishes wrapping and splinting the speedster’s foot. The moment she’s finished, she moves up to Barry’s side and bends over him. Steve watches her adjust the blankets around his face, and then brush the backs of her fingers along the slope of his cheek. After a long moment of studying his face, she straightens. She rests her hand on the center of his chest.

“I can’t believe I let this happen,” she murmurs.

She does not look up from Barry’s face, so she doesn’t see the incredulous look Steve gives her.

“He tripped into an avalanche,” Steve tells her gently. “If there was ever an example of a freak accident, this is it.” She doesn’t respond. Steve sets his hand over hers on Barry’s chest. “You can’t protect him from everything, Diana.”

She lifts her gaze to his. “I could have protected him from this.”

“How?”

“By leaving him home.” She gestures at Barry’s still unconscious body with her free hand. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to bring him. If you hadn’t—”

She stops abruptly and averts her eyes. A flush of remorse creeps over her face, but it’s too late. The implication feels like a knife twisting in his chest. He pulls his hand back from hers.

“If I hadn’t what?” he asks.

Her silence is deafening.

“You think this is my fault,” he murmurs, stunned.

She shakes her head. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He turns on his heel and stalks toward the door.

“Steve,” she calls after him.

He ignores her and keeps walking.

* * *

When Barry wakes, he feels like his body is filled with sand. His eyelids won’t open. His throat is dry and painful. When he tries to move his legs, nothing happens.

For a brief a second, he thinks he’s paralyzed. Terror grips his heart, and he gasps and then chokes.

His eyes fly open, and the first thing he sees is Diana’s face. “It’s okay, Barry,” she says gently. “You’re okay.”

He tries to suck in some air but nothing happens. All he can think about is the suffocating heaviness of the snow, and the terrible sting of panic when he realized that he’d hurt his ankle so bad he couldn’t run himself free.

“Look at me,” Diana commands, her hands framing his face.

He stares at her, his eyes wide and chest heaving.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs. “You are in the sick bay on the Fox. Your body is warming up and your vitals are fine. Your ankle is already healing. You’re safe.”

It’s like a dam breaks in his chest at her words. He’s finally able to suck in some oxygen, and his lungs burn with it. He gulps down breath after breath. Diana cards her fingers through his hair soothingly. He moves his arms and his legs, desperate to make sure everything works, and when he looks down at his body he realizes that he only had a hard time moving before because he’s wrapped so tightly in blankets.

_Thank god._

“The glacier water,” he croaks at Diana.

“I’ll get it later.”

He closes his eyes and tries to focus on his breathing. Diana’s fingers continue to thread through his hair rhythmically. He feels the last bits of tension sliding out of his body at her touch.

“Here,” Diana says after a minute or two. “Drink this.”

He cracks an eye open and sees her holding a mug.

“Hot chocolate?” he says hopefully.

“Tea,” she clarifies.

He crinkles his nose. “No thanks.”

“Sit up,” she commands. Her voice is not unkind, but it’s not the sort of tone he’s willing to argue with. He obeys immediately. “Drink,” she says, holding out the mug.

He sighs and takes a sip. It actually tastes pretty good, but there’s no way he’s going to admit it. “Tastes like grandma,” he says instead.

“Tasted a lot of grandmas, have you?” she says, arching an eyebrow.

“Ugh,” he says into his mug. “There’s a mental image I’ll never get out of my head.”

She snorts out a soft laugh.

He takes another sip. “Did you get caught in any avalanches during your mountain phase?”

“One or two,” she says, reaching up to brush her fingers through his hair again.

Before he can make a joke about how she probably didn’t trip over her own two feet and fall headfirst into them, Steve appears in the doorway and clears his throat.

Diana drops her hand from Barry’s hair and straightens abruptly. Barry glances up at her in surprise, and is startled to see that her smile has disappeared. She gives Steve a look that Barry can’t quite decipher. Steve doesn’t even glance in her direction. He doesn’t cross the room to stand next to her like he usually does either. He just steps across the threshold of the door and then stops.

“I thought I heard your voice,” he says to Barry. His tone is upbeat, but something about it sounds forced. His smile is strained. “How do you feel?”

“Okay,” Barry replies. “Glad Diana saved the day.”

“Yeah, she’s good at that,” Steve says softly. He finally casts a glance at Diana, but it doesn’t last long.

Barry sits up straighter in his bed. “Is something wrong?”

“Of course not,” Diana says, finally looking away from Steve. “We were worried about you, that’s all.”

“I know you’re probably hungry,” Steve adds. He gestures over his shoulder. “I’ll go grab you some food from your duffel. Give me five minutes.”

He leaves without looking at Diana again. She stares after him with an unreadable expression on her face.

“What the hell was that?” Barry asks a few seconds after Steve is gone.

Diana looks down at him.“What was what?”

“You and Steve. Are you guys in a fight or something?”

She fusses absently with the blankets that are draped over him and doesn’t answer.

“Di,” Barry says, reaching out to grab one of her hands.

She sighs. “We had a disagreement.”

“About me?”

She shakes her head. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, okay? It’s not your fault.”

Barry frowns at her. It’s too late to tell him not to worry—he’s already worried. It’s bad enough that Iris isn’t speaking to him. If Diana and Steve break up on top of that, he’s going to be wrecked.

He clears his throat. “Are you guys going to be okay, though?” he asks, trying to sound casual. “I mean, you’re not going to...you know...”

He doesn’t want to say the words. No point in tempting fate.

“Break up?” Diana offers when he doesn’t finish.

Barry swallows and nods.

Diana stares down at him for a moment, her expression thoughtful, and then she sits on the edge of his bed. “Couples fight, Barry. It doesn’t mean they’re going to break up. It just means there’s an issue they need to work out.”

“I didn’t think you and Steve had issues.”

She smiles. “Just because you haven’t seen us fight doesn’t mean we don’t.”

“Do you guys fight a lot?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Do you yell at each other?”

“Sometimes.”

“Who apologizes first?”

“I haven’t really kept track.”

“What do you fight about?”

She tilts her head. “That’s….”

“Private,” he supplies. He can feel his face flushing. “Sorry.”

“I was going to say complicated,” she tells him with a smile. “But private is also true. Drink your tea.”

He lifts the mug obediently to his lips. When he lowers it again Diana says, “This isn’t about me and Steve, is it?”

Barry sighs. He can’t decide if he’s embarrassed or relieved that it’s so easy for her to see right through him. “Iris and I got in a fight last night,” he admits. “And now she won’t answer my calls.”

“Maybe she just needs some space to sort out her feelings.”

“She could at least say that,” Barry grumbles. “Send me a text, or a DM, or a carrier pigeon or something. How am I supposed to apologize if she won’t even talk to me?”

“Did you do something you need to apologize for?” Diana asks, arching an eyebrow.

He stares down into his mug and mumbles, “Maybe.”

“Maybe or yes?”

“Yes.”

“Hm,” Diana hums.

He expects her to ask him what he did, but she doesn’t. He glances up at her nervously, afraid that he’s going to see disappointment on her face, but she just looks thoughtful again.

“Got any tips for me?” he asks.

She looks him in the eye. “Own your fault. And forgive her for hers.”

“Own and forgive,” he repeats. “Okay. I can do that.” And then he sighs. “If she lets me.”

Diana pats his knee. “I’m sure you’ll get a chance. Just be patient.”

Barry crinkles his nose. “That’s not exactly my strong suit.”

“Well then this will be good for you,” she says with a smile.

He snorts. “You gonna give Steve a chance?”

“Actually, he’s not the one who needs to apologize.” She gets to her feet. “I am.”

Barry’s certain that his face looks just as surprised as he feels. It’s not like he thinks Diana is a perfect angel goddess who can do no wrong. He just…

Well. Okay. He does think that.

Diana smiles at him as though she can read his mind. “Finish your tea. When I come back we’ll check on your ankle.”

Barry nods and takes another sip as Diana heads for the door. “Hey,” he calls out after her.

She turns around with lifted eyebrows.

“No make-up sex on the Fox.”

She grins at him and then disappears around the corner without agreeing.

“I mean it Diana!” he shouts.

He’s answered by silence.

Barry sighs. “My best friends are sex fiends,” he announces to the empty room. And then he crinkles his nose at the resulting visual. “Ugh.”

* * *

Diana finds Steve in the cargo bay, bent over a duffel bag. He must hear her boots on the stairs, because he straightens and turns around to face her. Their eyes meet from across the room but he does not smile at her. His shoulders are stiff and straight and his expression is devoid of its usual affection.

She nearly blurts out an apology before she even gets to the bottom of the stairs. She _hates_ fighting with him, and she especially hates the rare instances when she hurts his feelings, but she doesn’t want her apology to seem insincere because it is rushed.

“Need any help?” she asks instead as she descends the last step.

“No,” he says, glancing back down at the bag. “I was going to grab some of his favorite stuff, but it’s _all_ his favorite. I should probably just take him the bag and let him pick.”

“Is that the snack bag?” she asks, crossing the cargo bay. “Or the candy bag?”

Steve frowns at her. “The candy bag?”

Diana stops next to him and tosses aside a small, nondescript tarp to reveal a second duffle bag that’s identical to the one Steve had been rooting through. She crouches, unzips it, and then leans back so Steve can see the contents.

“Shit,” Steve says, his eyes widening at the mountains of candy shoved inside. “Since when does he bring two duffel bags of food?”

“He always brings two. He just hides the candy bag.”

“Why?”

Diana fishes a bag of Skittles—Steve’s favorite—out of the duffel and then stands up. She holds the candy out for him. “Because he doesn’t like to share.”

Steve makes no move to take the candy from her. Diana’s heart squeezes in her chest at the rejection. She lowers her hand. Silence stretches between them, tense and painful. She tosses the Skittles back into the duffel, and the soft smack of the bag landing sounds like a deafening echo. Steve fidgets. He won’t look at her. Diana’s hands twitch with the urge to reach out for him, but she doesn’t move. She can’t bear the thought of him recoiling from her.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” she murmurs into the silence. “What happened to Barry wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have made you feel like it was. It was cruel of me.”

For a moment her words hang in the air. Diana feels like the seconds drag on forever, but she waits as patiently as she can.

Finally, Steve reaches for her. He slides one of his hands over the armor encasing her hip, and then pulls her toward him gently. She goes willingly, her body molding to his. She does not try to contain her exhale of relief. She just tilts closer to him and lets her eyes flutter closed as his hand smoothes across the small of her back.  

“There isn’t a cruel bone in your body, Diana,” he tells her softly.

She shakes her head. “I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

He lifts a hand to play with the ends of her hair. His eyebrows furrow in thought, and Diana watches his face as she waits for him to respond. When he finally looks up at her, his blue eyes are clear and focused.

“You weren’t ready for this, were you?”

It’s a vague statement, but Diana doesn’t need any further explanation. She knows what he means. _You’re not over what happened with the guardian. You weren’t ready to be back in the field._

“I wanted to be,” she answers. “I want to find the artifacts. I want forever with you.”

“But you weren’t ready for today.”

He is gazing at her intently, and although she forces herself to look him in the eye she can’t seem to force any words out. They are stuck in her throat. She shakes her head at him instead.

“Diana,” he breathes, his tone a blend of reproach and affection. He lifts his hands to frame her face, his thumbs tracing over her cheeks. “You should have told me.”

“I didn’t think there was anything to tell,” she says, tilting closer to him. “I thought it was just nerves. I felt the same way the first time we went out with the League after you were shot.”

“But this wasn’t for the League. We didn’t have to dive back in so soon. We could have waited.”

“For what? An emergency with the League? That would have been even harder. The stakes are too high. I thought an artifact mission would be easier.”

Steve frowns and lowers his hands down to her shoulders. “It probably would’ve been if I hadn’t invited Barry.”

Diana smiles a little. “I think he invited himself.”

Steve doesn’t return her smile. He looks suddenly contrite. “I shouldn’t have forced you to bring him, Diana.”

“You’ve never _forced_ me to do anything. You encouraged me, but you were right to do that. It’s what I needed.”

“To make you even more nervous than you already were?” he asks almost bitterly.

“To remind me not to be a coward,” she amends softly.

He tightens his hold on her shoulders, his eyes blazing. “You are _not_ a coward,” he says so fiercely that it’s almost as if she has accused him of being one instead of herself.

“I have been in the past,” she points out. “I spent a hundred years avoiding relationships because I was afraid of losing someone the way I lost you. I let the fear of what _could_ happen keep me from a lot of wonderful relationships.”

He still looks angry. She runs her hands upward along his chest. “You cannot be angry at me for speaking truth about myself,” she tells him gently.

“But it’s _not_ true,” he protests. “If you’re a coward then we’re all doomed. Me especially. I’m scared all the time.”

“Being a coward isn’t about being scared. Everyone is afraid of something. The difference between a coward and a brave man is that a coward allows their fear to dictate their choices. You were afraid when you jumped on that plane, but you did it anyway. You did not let your fear control you. You are not a coward.”

“You do tons of stuff like that.”

“In battle, yes. But I’m not mortal or human. My bravery in the face of physical danger doesn’t mean as much as yours does. For me, it’s relationships that test my mettle. And I failed that test for a long, long time.”

His eyes flash again at the word _failed,_ but she does not give him a chance to interject.

“I don’t want to fail anymore,” she says. “It’s okay that I am afraid to lose you and Barry. It is not okay for that fear to drive me to make decisions for either of you. Or to blame you when things go wrong.”

“Harrumph,” Steve says after a long pause.

Diana smiles at him. He only _harrumphs_ at her when he can’t think of a counterargument. “You told me once that I make you a better man,” she murmurs. “That goes both ways, love. You make me better too. You make me brave.”

He traces his fingertips across her clavicle. “When I got to this century, the League was already your family. You taught yourself how to be brave, angel. I didn’t do that.”

“Joining the League was the first time in a long time that I let anybody in,” she acknowledges. “But it was only a small step. There’s not much to worry about when most of them are metahumans.”

She cups his face in her hand and traces his lips with her thumb, barely resisting the urge to lean forward and press her mouth against his.  

“When Barry brought you back, and you joined A.R.G.U.S. and started working for Waller, I couldn’t take small steps anymore. I had to leap.”

“Because I’m not a meta?”

“Because I’m in love with you.” She lowers her hand and presses it against his heart. “Because I carry your heart.”

“I can’t believe I fell in love with a woman who quotes poetry,” he murmurs.

She smiles. “I’m fairly certain you quoted that poem to me first.”

“I can’t believe I fell in love with a woman who makes _me_ want to quote poetry,” he amends with a smirk. And then he kisses her, his hands sliding along her jaw and backward until they are buried in her hair.

Diana melts into him. They’ve shared a thousand kisses over the course of their relationship. She still thinks each one is better than the last.

“Am I forgiven?” she whispers when they finally part. “Because I could quote some more poetry if you’re not sure.”

“If you start quoting poetry I’m going to start taking off your clothes, and I don’t think Barry would appreciate us doing that so close to his candy bag.”

She bites her lip around a smile. “He said no make-up sex on the Fox.”

“Well now we _have_ to do it.”

Diana laughs.

* * *

_August 2019_

Steve is setting the table for dinner when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and glances at the screen. It’s a text message from Barry.

_What are you doing,_ it says.

_Getting ready to eat dinner with Diana,_ Steve replies.

The response is immediate. _Naked dinner?_

Steve frowns at his phone. _WTF is naked dinner?_

_It’s when you eat dinner naked. Duh._

There is an eye roll emoji at the end of Barry’s text. Steve contemplates rolling his own eyes. _Why would we eat dinner naked?_ he types.

_Idk. I feel like you guys do a lot of stuff naked._

Steve snorts.

“What is it?” Diana asks as she leans around him to set a bottle of wine on the table.

Steve shows her his phone. He watches her gaze move across the screen as she reads, and then she glances up at him. She smiles. “Well, he’s not wrong.”

Steve shoves his phone back in his pocket and turns to face her. “Want to eat dinner naked?” he asks, grasping her hips and pulling her flush against his body.

“Enchiladas aren’t very romantic,” she answers as she wraps her arms around his shoulders.

“I would eat enchiladas off of you,” Steve insists. “I would eat _anything_ off of you.”

She laughs. “Why don’t we wait for dessert?”

“What’s for dessert?”

Before Diana can respond, the terrace door swings open and Barry bursts into the apartment. The moment he skids to a stop, he groans.

“Seriously, why are you guys _always_ touching?”

Diana smiles at him. “We’re not naked,” she points out.

“We were thinking about it,” Steve clarifies.

Barry pretends to vomit.

Diana laughs. “What do you need, Barry?” She steps out of Steve’s embrace. Steve pouts at her. She ignores him.

“I was hoping for some advice,” the speedster says.

Loud beeping echoes from the kitchen. Diana turns toward the sound, but Steve puts his hand on her arm. “I’ll get it.”

Diana smiles at him gratefully. Steve heads into the kitchen, grabbing a pair of oven mitts on the way.

“Advice about what?” Diana asks Barry.

“Iris. She wants me to meet her parents.”

Steve pulls the enchiladas out of the oven and sets them on top of the stove to cool as Diana says, “That’s wonderful, Barry. They’ll love you.”

“Yeah, I’m not so sure,” Barry mutters, sinking into one of the chairs at the dining table. “Iris says her dad is kind of tough.”

“So is Bruce,” Diana points out as she sits gracefully in the chair opposite him. “But you managed to win him over.”

“Bruce tolerates me because he has to.”

“That’s not true. Bruce loves you. He just shows it in his own way.”

Barry snorts. “Yeah, okay, fine. But I don’t want the Wests to love me like that. I want them to love me the way Iris is hoping they will. You know, like the son they never had.” He glances at Steve as Steve moves toward the table to join them. “You met Diana’s mom right?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And I’m the last person you should be asking for advice because I’m pretty sure she wanted to kill me.”

“I never would have allowed that,” Diana announces, sounding every inch the princess. Steve smiles down at her and brushes his fingers over the back of her neck. She leans her shoulder against his hip.

“But you’re so charming,” Barry says to Steve in awe. “Everybody loves you.”

“Well,” Steve starts, flattered, but a soft snort from Diana cuts him off.

“What are you snorting at?” he asks her.

“You are not that charming,” she answers. She looks across the table at Barry. “He is not that charming.”

“Hey,” Steve says, dropping his hand from her neck.

“Oh please,” Diana scoffs. “My mother is the Queen of the Amazons. Do you really think a man’s silver tongue could sway her?”

“Well her daughter seems to like my tongue,” Steve says with a self-satisfied smirk.

A loud thumping noise echoes through the apartment, and Steve tears his eyes away from Diana’s amused smile to see that Barry has dropped his forehead down onto the table. “Seriously,” his muffled voice says. “You guys are the worst.”

Steve grins. He and Diana don’t flirt like this in front of the rest of the League—only in front of Barry, and only because it flusters him so badly.

“The point,” Diana says, reaching across the table to ruffle Barry’s hair so that he will look at her, “is that you can’t possibly do worse than Steve did.”

“True story,” Steve confirms with a nod. “Besides, you’re the Flash. Even the toughest of parents are bound to be excited about their daughter dating a superhero.”

Barry looks suddenly uncomfortable. “They don’t know I’m the Flash.”

“Oh,” Diana says. “Well that’s okay. Does Iris not want them to know?”

Barry’s discomfort seems to increase. He fidgets in his chair. “Iris uh...Iris doesn’t know either.”

Steve stares at the speedster in surprise. When he glances down at Diana, she looks equally stunned. “You said you were going to tell her,” she says.

“I was,” Barry says. “But then I got to thinking, you know, that maybe I...wouldn’t.”

Diana furrows her eyebrows. “Do you not trust her?”

“Of course I trust her. It’s not about that.”

“Do you see a future with her?”

“Hell yeah. I’d marry her tomorrow if I could.”

Diana’s expression hardens a little. “Barry—”

“Wait, hold on,” he says, lifting his hands. “I know you’re the goddess of truth and everything, Di, but the truth isn’t _always_ best, okay?”

Diana stares at him. Her expression isn’t angry, or even really disapproving. She just seems genuinely shocked. “The truth—” she starts.

“Gets people killed,” Barry cuts her off. “And I don’t want Iris dead.”

Diana recoils at his words. Steve presses his hand against her back, and he can feel her muscles tensing beneath his palm.

“Why would knowing you’re the Flash get Iris killed?” he asks, stroking his hand between Diana’s shoulder blades soothingly.

“Lois gets kidnapped like once a week,” Barry says.

“Lois is publicly tied to Superman,” Diana counters. “Iris is not publicly linked to the Flash. Only to Barry Allen.”

“But what if someone figures out that I _am_ the Flash?” Barry asks.

“Then they might come after Iris,” Steve says. Barry looks momentarily vindicated, but Steve isn’t done yet. “But they’re going to do that whether she knows you’re the Flash or not. And if she doesn’t know, then that means someone else is going to tell her. And I don’t think she’ll like hearing it from someone other than you.”

Barry’s face falls.

“Barry,” Diana says gently. “I know you want to keep her safe. I understand—”

“No you don’t,” Barry cuts her off. Hurt flashes over Diana’s face. Steve has the sudden urge to pull her closer and glare at Barry. “Steve is a spy,” Barry continues. “He’s in the League. Iris isn’t. She’s not a soldier, Di. She’s not even a reporter like Lois. She didn’t sign up for this.”

“You haven’t given her a chance to. It would be one thing if she knew the truth, was concerned about her safety, and asked you not to share any details with her. It is another thing entirely to withhold the truth based on perceived danger.”

“There is nothing _perceived_ about the assholes we go up against,” Barry says angrily, his voice rising. “I’m allowed to be concerned about my girlfriend’s safety.”

“Yes,” Diana replies evenly. “But you cannot make unilateral decisions because of it. Being the Flash is part of who you are, Barry. Iris has not actually chosen to be with you until she knows the _real_ you. You cannot hide this from her.”

“Yes I _can,_ ” Barry insists. “Guys who work for the CIA and other dangerous organizations do it all the time. The less she knows about my other life, the safer she is. I’m doing what’s best for her.”

For a moment, the room is silent. Diana studies Barry. Barry fidgets beneath her gaze but does not cower. Steve watches their faceoff with interest. Barry is so eager to please and Diana is so understanding that Steve has never seen them argue. It’s clearly unsettling them both, but neither seems willing to back down.

“It is a dangerous thing to assume that you know what is best for someone else,” Diana finally says softly.

“We do it all the time, Di,” Barry replies, matching her tone. “We make decisions about what’s safe for people every day.”

Diana shakes her head. “This is not the same. You and Iris are partners. You are in a relationship. And relationships built on lies are doomed to fail.”

“It’s not a—”

“Yes it is,” Steve finally interjects, probably a little harsher than he meant to.

Barry looks up at him in surprise. There is a hint of betrayal in his eyes. Diana doesn’t look up. Steve can see that her hands are curled into fists in her lap, and once again he tamps down a flash of irritation. It’s not Barry’s fault that he doesn’t know how much Diana has struggled with this.

“I don’t have a lasso,” Steve tells Barry, trying to keep his voice even. “I’m not bound to the truth the way Diana is.”

“So you understand where I’m coming from.”

“Yeah. And Diana does too, despite what you seem to think.”

Barry looks a little abashed. Diana’s hands uncurl from fists. Her shoulder presses into Steve’s hip more firmly. She does not have to say anything for Steve to know what she’s thinking. _Be gentle._

Steve takes a deep breath. “Hiding the truth is the same thing as lying to someone’s face,” he says quietly. “I know because I did the same thing to Diana that you’re doing to Iris.”

Barry looks shocked. He glances at Diana, and then back to Steve. “But you don’t have a secret identity.”

“It wasn’t about identities,” Steve says, shaking his head. “It was about…” He can’t seem to find the words. His tongue feels like it’s twisted in a knot. All these months later, and he’s still deeply ashamed of lying to her for so long.

“Fear,” Diana supplies softly.

Steve glances down at her. She looks up at him, and the expression on her face is so tender that Steve is helpless against the urge to brush the backs of his fingers along her cheek. He nods. “Yeah. Fear.”

He looks back at Barry. “I was afraid that the truth would hurt her. I wanted to protect her, just like you want to protect Iris. But she didn’t want to be protected. She wanted to be loved. And lies aren’t love, no matter how well-intentioned they are.”

Barry looks anguished. He glances at Diana, flushes, and then lowers his eyes. “Guys, look, I’m not trying to...” He sighs, and then buries his head in his hands.

Diana reaches across the table and pulls his hands away from his face gently. “This is your decision, Barry. Not mine. Not Steve’s.”

“But you think I’m wrong,” Barry says miserably.

“I think you’re scared,” Diana corrects. “It’s okay to be scared. It means you care. But if you care enough about her that you want to spend the rest of your life with her, then you need to tell her the truth. Keeping it from her will not protect her, and the longer you wait the harder it will be.”

Barry stares down at his hands on the table. “What if I...I mean, what if…” He huffs out a breath, apparently annoyed by his inability to finish a thought. “You said it was my choice, right?” he finally manages to say, glancing up at Diana.

“It is,” she confirms with a nod.

He looks back down at his hands. “So if…”

There is a long, agonizing pause. When it’s clear that Barry is either unable or unwilling to finish, Diana reaches across the table and covers his hands with one of hers. “There is nothing you could or couldn’t do that would make me love you less, Barry.”

Barry lifts his gaze to hers slowly. For a second, Steve thinks he’s about to watch the speedster leap over the table and into Diana’s arms. Instead Barry leans forward, his stomach pressed against the table, and squeezes Diana’s hand so tight his knuckles turn white.

“Promise?” he murmurs.

Diana smiles. “I promise.”

Barry glances up at Steve with a worried, but hopeful look.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve confirms. Barry looks relieved. “Although just so you know,” Steve continues, “Diana and I are planning to get naked with our dessert after dinner, so _you_ might want to go somewhere.”

Diana smiles, wide and beautiful, and Barry groans. “Why do you _do_ that?” he whines.

“Because it’s fun,” Steve answers. He bends down and kisses the top of Diana’s head. “I’ll get an extra plate.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

“Plate?” Barry says, perking up.

“Unless you already ate,” Steve says.

“I haven’t eaten in an entire hour,” Barry replies solemnly as if it is some kind of world record.

“Hurry Steve,” Diana says in mock seriousness. “He might starve.”

* * *

Barry stays for dessert.

Diana expects Steve to shoo him out the door, but when she sets the chocolate tart from her favorite bakery on the table, Steve just brandishes his spoon at the speedster and says, “If I don’t get two pieces of this I will break your legs.”

Barry laughs, and Steve grins, and Diana goes still for a moment, smiling down at the two of them, struck by how full her heart is even though she didn’t think it could possibly get any fuller.

“I should go,” Barry says when the tart is gone. He gets to his feet, and claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Thanks for keeping your clothes on during dessert.”

“You owe me,” Steve deadpans, scraping the last bit of chocolate off his plate.

Barry snorts, and then fixes his eyes on Diana. She has barely risen to her feet before he’s raced around the table and enveloped her in a hug, his arms wrapped so tightly around her body that she exhales a little bit of a laugh.

“Be careful running back,” she tells him.

When he leans away from her, his eyes are shining. “Yes ma’am.”

And then he’s gone, and when Diana looks down at the table she realizes that all the dishes are too. She smiles.

“Oh,” Steve says a moment later. “He washed the dishes.”

“Yes,” Diana says, smiling wider. “He can be very thoughtful.”

“That’s because you raised him right,” Steve replies, grinning at her.

It’s only a joke, but it makes Diana’s heart flip in her chest anyway. She is not Barry’s mother, but she imagines that this might be what she would feel like if she was—this desperate desire to prevent him from making a decision she knows he will eventually regret, countered by an equally strong desire to let him make his own decisions without her interference. She wonders briefly if her own mother ever felt this way, and an unexpectedly sharp feeling of loss invades her chest and makes her breath catch.

Steve rises from his chair and moves toward her. Diana isn’t sure if he can see on her face that she needs to be comforted, or if he somehow just knows. She ducks her head and closes her eyes and waits for his touch, and he does not disappoint her—he slides his hands over her waist and then along the small of her back, pulling her body against his. There is nothing suggestive about it. It’s only familiar affection, the kind that makes her think of lazy Sunday mornings in bed or quiet weeknights on the couch, and warmth spreads through her veins.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice low.

She rests her forehead against the line of his jaw and murmurs back to him a quiet, one-line prayer of gratitude that Antiope used to say before every training session. _With every breath I am grateful for this gift._

Her words hang in the air for a moment. “You’re grateful?” Steve asks, his fingers stroking along her spine.

The prayer is in ancient Greek, but Diana is not surprised he picked up enough of it to interpret. “For you,” she whispers in response.

His stubble scratches along her cheek as he dips his head forward. He kisses the curve of her neck. “Because I made Barry give you the last piece of tart?” he asks.

She laughs. She can feel his lips smiling against her skin. She leans back so that she can look him in the eye. “It was kind of you to let him stay for dessert.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, his hands tracing over her hips now, “it seemed like you wanted more time with him.”

He’s right. She did. “You know me well,” she murmurs with a smile.

“I like to think so.”

“Is that why you almost lost your temper with him earlier? Because you knew I was upset?”

The expression on Steve’s face freezes momentarily, the same way it often does when she asks him a question that surprises him. She thinks it’s a spy reflex—somewhere along the way, he learned to prevent too much of a reaction from registering on his face. She watches him, waiting, and within a few seconds his expression dissolves into something familiar and open. She can’t help but feel pleased. Steve doesn’t let his emotions show plainly on his face that easily with anyone except her.

“He was wrong to say you don’t understand,” he says quietly.

She shakes her head. “He doesn’t know all that we’ve been through. He might not have said it if he did.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrow. “Yeah. I know.”

Diana strokes her fingers over his brow. “But?”

“But he still shouldn’t have said it.”

His eyes are hard, and his body is tense against hers. Diana lowers her hands to his shoulders, smoothing her palms down his arms and then back up. Steve relaxes beneath her touch just like she knew he would. This is not the first time she has soothed him in private after having a disagreement with someone. When Steve feels like she’s been disrespected, even unintentionally by a friend, he reacts immediately—his body stiffens and his face goes blank and his hands curl into fists. Despite looking like he wants to punch someone, he never actually intervenes. He does not try to fight her battles. He does not speak on her behalf unless she invites him to.

To be loved so fiercely and understood so well makes her want to to say Antiope’s prayer again. She presses into the warmth of Steve’s body and whispers the words. And then she kisses him, her arms wrapping around his neck, and she feels the last vestiges of anger seep out of him and disappear.

His shaky exhale when she pulls away tells her that her kiss has had its intended effect. His hands grip her waist. “What’s the exact translation of what you said?” he asks.

“With every breath I am grateful for this gift,” she answers. “It’s a prayer of thankfulness. My aunt said it often.”

“Teach it to me.”

She says the first part slowly in ancient Greek, and he repeats it after her. When she says the second part, he butchers the pronunciation as he repeats it back.

“Gift,” she corrects.

“Gift,” he mimics. “Gift.”

She says the prayer again in its entirety, and this time when he says it back to her it’s right. “Perfect,” she whispers.

His fingers trace her smile. She watches his eyes darken. He leans into her, pressing her body against the edge of the table, his gaze shifting down to her lips. “Perfect,” he echoes.

He’s not talking about his pronunciation. Desire races through Diana’s blood, sharp and hot. She fists a hand into his shirt against the ache of need that throbs deep in her belly. “Steve,” she breathes.

He moves his hands to the band in her hair. Her ponytail loosens, and then her hair tumbles free around her shoulders. His hands are buried in it a moment later, and his mouth is on hers a second after that. It’s the kind of kiss that makes her feel as though she’s catching fire, and when he pulls back just long enough to whisper “I’m grateful for this” before stroking his tongue into her mouth, she thinks her knees go a little weak.  

His lips move down the column of her neck, and she tilts her head to give him better access. “And this,” he says, his teeth scraping over her throat. One of his hands slips beneath her shirt and slides across her skin. “And this.”

She can feel her body flushing from want, the ache of desire growing sharper. The dining table is hard against the back of her thighs. It wouldn’t be their first time on top of it, but it makes her remember her disagreement with Barry and that’s not what she wants to think about right now. “Bed,” she sighs to Steve.

He pulls her shirt up and over her head and tosses it to the side, then presses his lips to her collarbone. Her chest rises with an inhale beneath the heat of his mouth. “Angel,” he murmurs against her skin.

“Bed,” she insists. And then she lifts her feet from the ground and hovers in the air before him, her nails digging into his shoulders as she wraps her legs around his hips. He swears under his breath, something that sounds like _fucking hell that’s hot,_ but before she can respond he fuses his mouth to hers and carries her toward their bedroom.  

* * *

_September 2019_

“I don’t think he’s here,” Steve says with a frown after his second knock on Barry’s front door goes unanswered. He glances at Diana. “You should call him.”

“I don’t want to interrupt him if he’s busy,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s Saturday afternoon. He probably has plans.”

Steve scoffs. “If he finds out we were in Central City unexpectedly and didn’t make a serious effort to see him, he’s going to pout for weeks.”

“Weeks?” Diana repeats, her eyebrows raised in a way that suggests she thinks he’s exaggerating.

“Remember when I was here for that thing with Waller and he found out I didn’t call him?”

“Hm,” Diana says. And then she nods. “I’ll call him.”

Steve grins. “Good idea.”

Diana lifts her phone to her ear, and Steve sinks down to his knees in front of the door. “What are you doing?” she asks with a curious frown.

“I’m going to pick the lock,” he answers, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. He always keeps a set of lockpicks within reach. Old habits.

“What on earth for?”

“So we can wait for him on his couch instead of in his hallway like a pair of creepy stalkers.”

“He might be too busy to see us.”

Steve sets to work on the lock. “Barry is never too busy to see you, Diana.”

“I said _us._ ”

“You’re his favorite.”

“Barry loves you.”

“Sure,” Steve says with a shrug. “But you’re his favorite.”

Diana huffs out a sigh. A moment of silence passes, and then she lowers her phone from her ear. “No answer.”

“Weird,” Steve says. He’s almost got the lock undone. He can feel Diana frowning at him again.

“Steve,” she calls. He grunts at her. She glances over her shoulder, but they’re alone in the hallway. She turns back to him. “Steve,” she calls, more insistently this time. “You’re breaking and entering.”

“He won’t care.”

“ _I_ care.”

He shoots her a smirk. “You want to bind my wrists to stop me?”

She rolls her eyes so hard he thinks she’d probably have a headache if she were human. “You are insufferable.”

Steve gives the lock one more firm prod, and it clicks undone. He smirks up at Diana again. “Insufferable, but talented.”

“ _Criminally_ talented,” she shoots back at him as he stands.

“You didn’t seem to mind my criminal talents last week in Kiev.”

She levels him with a stern look, but he can see the amusement in her eyes. “That was for the League.”

“I didn’t mean during the mission,” he clarifies, latching onto the lapel of her leather jacket and pulling her close. “I meant after, when you said it was sexy that I could pick pockets.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s quite what I said.”

“Maybe not.” He smoothes his hand over the flare of her hip. “But you were taking my clothes off while you said it, so you’ll have to forgive my inability to remember all the details.”

She smirks at him.

He turns the doorknob with his free hand and shoves Barry’s front door open. “Shall we?”

She bites her lip around a smile and shakes her head at him. “I’m not fooling around with you in Barry’s apartment, Steve.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to fool around,” he replies, feigning innocence.

Her smile deepens. “Your hand on my ass said it for you.”

Steve grins, but he is prevented from saying something _very_ inappropriate by the sight of someone stepping off the elevator. Steve squints over Diana’s shoulder as the figure moves slowly toward them. It’s moving at an almost glacial pace, but Steve could swear that it looks exactly like...

“Barry?” he says.

Diana turns around immediately. The figure lifts its head. It’s definitely Barry. But his feet are shuffling across the floor, and his shoulders are slumped, and even when his gaze settles on Diana there is no spark of excitement in his eyes.

He stops a few yards away from them. “Hey guys,” he says quietly.

That’s it. No mile-a-minute greetings, no tackle hugs, no joy. Diana takes a step toward him. “What happened?” she murmurs.

Barry swallows thickly. “Iris broke up with me.”

Steve gapes at the speedster, stunned into silence. Barry ducks his head, but not before Steve sees the tears sitting in his friend’s eyes.

Diana does not hesitate. She erases the space between her and Barry, wraps her arms around his shoulders, and pulls him into a hug. Barry stands still for a second, frozen and blinking back tears, and then his arms come up around Diana’s body and he buries his face in her shoulder with a quiet, heartbroken sob.

Steve’s heart twists at the sight. He may have been teasing Diana when he told her that she was Barry’s favorite, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Diana is exactly who Barry needs right now—probably the _only_ person he needs right now—and Steve doesn’t want to infringe on their moment.

But he does want to help, and he thinks he knows how he can.

He walks past them quietly, and then stops about a yard behind Barry. Diana glances up, and her eyes meet Steve’s over Barry’s shoulder.

_Food?_ Steve mouths to her.

She frowns at him, and then her expression smoothes into understanding. Sooner or later, Barry will stop crying. He’ll still be upset, though, and there are two things Barry does when he’s upset: he runs and he eats. He didn’t look all that interested in running while he was ambling down the hallway a moment ago, but Steve’s willing to bet he won’t turn down a table full of his favorite foods.

_Pizza,_ Steve mouths at Diana, holding up his index finger. _Cheetos, doughnuts, tacos,_ he continues, counting them off on the rest on his fingers. He gives Diana a questioning look and wiggles his last finger.

_Ice cream,_ she mouths at him.

Steve nods and then heads for the elevator.

* * *

Diana isn’t sure how long Barry stands wrapped in her arms, but when he finally pulls away from her it feels too soon.

He ducks his head and wipes his face. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“Don’t be,” she says. She curls her fingers around his arm and pulls him toward his front door. He follows her lead, his feet shuffling across the faded carpet in the hall. Usually when Diana touches him, she can feel the snap of electricity humming just beneath his skin. She can barely feel it now.

She kicks the door shut behind them. Barry sniffs and wipes his nose with his shirt sleeve, staring morosely at his empty apartment. Diana smoothes her hand across his shoulder blades. “Couch,” she orders gently.

He obeys immediately, but he does not run—he walks toward the couch, painfully slow compared to his usual speed, and Diana’s heart aches for him.

She heads into his kitchen. There’s a Keurig sitting on the counter next to a carousel of assorted k-cups, and since Barry doesn’t drink coffee Diana assumes the breakfast blend k-cups belong to Iris. There’s a box of hot chocolate packets sitting nearby. Diana brews a mug of hot water and then mixes in a packet of chocolate. She finds a bag of miniature marshmallows in one of the cupboards, and sprinkles a handful on top of the mug before heading toward the couch.

“Here,” she says, holding out the mug.

Barry glances at it. His bottom lip trembles a little, but he takes it from her. She settles onto the couch next to him. For a while they sit in silence. Eventually, Barry sets his barely-sipped mug down on the coffee table and rakes a hand through his hair. He looks completely, utterly miserable.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Diana asks him quietly.

He puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “You were right.”

For a split second, Diana is confused. _Right about what?_ But then she remembers the last time Barry was in Paris, and their disagreement over telling Iris about the Flash, and her heart sinks. She takes no satisfaction in being right. She would’ve rather been wrong than to see Barry like this.

Barry picks his head up and wipes his nose again. “Our six month anniversary was last weekend,” he says quietly. “I planned this whole thing. You know, like a big romantic gesture. And it was…” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “It was amazing. I didn’t want the weekend to end. And then I realized it didn’t have to. I didn’t plan it ahead of time, it just sort of came out, but I...I asked her if she wanted to move in together. And she said yes.”

All the air rushes out of Diana’s lungs. “Oh Barry,” she breathes, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

“I was going to tell you when we found a place,” he says glancing up at her.

There’s concern on his face, like he’s worried that she thinks he was keeping something from her, so Diana smiles at him. “Of course.”

He looks relieved, and then glances down at his hands. “We looked at apartments all week,” he says, his voice wavering. “The one we went to yesterday had this, like, little hidden compartment in the wall that someone built during the prohibition to hide alcohol. The landlord made a joke about how we could hide our secret stuff in there and Iris just laughed and told him we didn’t have any secrets.”

The last word hangs in the air like a drawn-out hiss. _Secrets._ Diana waits for Barry to continue, but he doesn’t. He is staring intently at his mug of hot chocolate. “Did that make you feel guilty?” she asks quietly.

He nods. “I didn’t sleep last night. I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said about how relationships built on lies are doomed to fail.”

He looks over at her. His eyes are rimmed red, and his cheeks are blotchy and a little puffy. “I told her the truth this morning. I told her I’m the Flash.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing at first,” he says, sniffing again. “She just kind of stared at me.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Diana acknowledges.

Barry’s eyes go glassy again. He shakes his head. “I’m such an idiot, Di. I don’t know how I...it’s like everything I said came out wrong. She kept asking about all the times I’d been away with the League, and if I ever felt bad for lying about where I was. And then she asked why I waited so long to tell her, and if it was because I didn’t trust her or because I wasn’t serious about us. I tried to tell her that I just wanted to keep her safe, but she said it wasn’t my choice to make.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “She said she needed time to think about stuff. About us. She asked me to leave. So I left and came back here and found you guys.”

Diana frowns. Out in the hallway, he’d told her that Iris had broken up with him. But asking for time to process the fact that he’s a superhero is not the same thing as breaking up with him. Diana still remembers having to explain to Barry that she and Steve weren’t going to break up just because they’d had a fight, and she wonders if that’s what’s going on now, too.

She resists the urge to smooth his unruly hair and folds her hands in her lap instead, trying to figure out the correct way to word her question. She doesn’t want to give him false hope, but she doesn’t want him to mourn something that he hasn’t really lost either.

“Barry,” she says gently. “Did Iris tell you it was over?”

He looks up at her with his eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Did she say she wanted to break up?” Diana rephrases. “Or did she just say she needed some time?”

“She kicked me out of her apartment,” Barry answers incredulously.

“Permanently?”

He blinks at her. “She called me a liar,” he says instead of answering. And then he frowns. “Well, not really. She just kept saying _you lied to me_ which is basically the same thing. And she was right. I’ve been a liar since our first date.”

Diana shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s completely fair. You can’t tell a woman you’re the Flash on the first date.”

“What about before I tell her I love her?” Barry counters. “Before I meet her parents? Before I ask her to move in with me?”

“You should have told her before you did,” Diana agrees. “I’m not disputing that. I’m just asking you if you’re sure that she actually broke up with you.”

Barry sighs and collapses back against the couch. He scrubs his hand over his face. “I guess not. But if she didn’t, she’s going to. What woman wants to be with a man who lied to her?”

Diana lifts a shoulder. “I’m still with Steve.”

Barry blinks at her in surprise. “Oh,” he says.

“You know how I feel about the truth,” she tells him. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand why people lie. And it doesn’t mean I can’t forgive them for it.”

He looks suddenly curious. “Do you understand why Steve lied to you?”

“Yes. I wish he hadn’t. And I think if you asked him, he would tell you that he wishes the same thing. But working through it made us better. Stronger.”

Hope chases across Barry’s face but fades quickly. He sinks farther back into the couch and shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s going to happen for me and Iris.”

“Why not?”

“Cause she said it’s not just about the lies. It’s about me not letting her make her own decisions about her life.”

Diana nods. “I see.”

Barry turns his gaze toward her. He looks miserable again. “You can say _I told you so_ if you want.”

“You know I would never.”

He tilts his head back on the couch and stares up at the ceiling. “You were right though. I never asked for her opinion. I just decided I knew what was best for her.” He sighs heavily and mutters, “Bet Steve would never do that.”

“I’ve done it to him.”

Barry snaps his head toward her and stares. Diana feels her throat tighten. She hasn’t told anyone who wasn’t there about what happened with the guardian. She knows she doesn’t have to tell Barry. But she _wants_ to. She wants to help him see that he’s not the only one who is haunted by loss and struggles to face it.

“A few weeks before you came with Steve and I to Alaska, we were in Ireland with Clark and Constantine,” she starts. “We were searching for an artifact that was protected by a sorceress named the guardian. We found it, and her, and she cast a spell on me that made me think Steve was an enemy. So I...I treated him the way I would treat an enemy.”

Diana feels like her throat is starting to close up. All of a sudden, all she can think about is the echoing crack of Steve’s bones breaking beneath her. She swallows and takes a deep breath.

“If Clark and Constantine hadn’t been there I would’ve killed him,” she confesses softly. She can feel Barry staring at her, but she does not look at him. She stares down at her hands. “He was unconscious for a few days afterward. I thought that when he woke up, he would be afraid of me. I thought he would want to end things. When he wasn’t, and he didn’t, I tried to do it for him.”

She finally looks up at Barry. His mouth is hanging open comically wide, but she does not smile.

“Wait,” he sputters after a long silence. “You tried to _break up_ _with Steve?_ ”

The fact that he is fixated on the potential break up, and not on the fact that she’d very nearly murdered the love of her life, finally brings a small smile to her lips.

“I didn’t try very hard. But yes. I wanted him to be safe. I thought being away from me was what was best for him.”

Understanding flashes in Barry’s eyes, and Diana wonders if he’s finally realizing why she was so adamant about him not making decisions for Iris.

“What did Steve do?” he asks quietly.

“He said that it was his life, and his choice. He chose me.”

“Is the point of this story that you guys are adorable even when you’re breaking up?”

Diana smiles. “The point,” she says, “is that I know how you feel. I know why you did what you did. I did not lose my mother the way you did, but I did lose her. I lost my aunt. I’ve lost many, many friends over the years. And I lost Steve. I have him back now, thanks to you, but I spent a hundred years without him. And I am terrified of losing him again.”

Barry looks a little taken aback by her honesty. Diana wonders if she should have told him all this sooner. Maybe if she’d explained herself better when he was sitting across the table from her in Paris he wouldn’t be in this situation now.

She holds her hand up against his cheek the way her mother used to do to her. “I know what it is to be afraid of loss, Barry. I have made the same choices you have. I struggle not to make them again every day.”

For a moment, the apartment is silent as Barry processes her words. Eventually he murmurs, “Steve forgave you.”

She nods. “Yes.”

“And you forgave him. For lying.”

“Yes.”

His eyebrows gather. “Do you think Iris can forgive me?”

_By the gods I hope so,_ she thinks. “I don’t know,” she says instead. “If she does, things have to change. No more lying to her. No more making decisions for her.”

Barry’s gaze is locked on hers. “And if she doesn’t?” he asks, his voice barely audible.

Diana’s heart aches in her chest, but she is unwilling to tell him anything but the truth. “Then you have to let her go.”

Barry’s eyes go glassy. He locks his jaw and sniffs, but the tears remain in his eyes. He swallows and then shakes his head. “I don’t want to let her go.”

“I know,” Diana whispers.

Tears start to leak slowly from his eyes. Diana opens her arms to him, and he does not hesitate: He surges across the couch and into her arms, and Diana holds him as tightly as she can.

* * *

When Steve climbs out of an Uber in front of Barry’s apartment building, his hands are full of food.

There are two grocery bags hanging from each of his forearms. They are stuffed with Cheetos, Doritos, pints of ice cream, and bags of candy. He’s also carrying two large pizza boxes, a box of doughnuts, and a greasy brown bag filled to the brim with tacos. He has no idea how he’s going to get the front door open by himself when he doesn’t have any free hands.

For the hundredth time this week, he finds himself envying Diana’s ability to just fly wherever she wants to go. It’d be a lot easier to just hover up to Barry’s window and knock on the glass with his foot.

He’s considering his options when he sees someone pacing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the building. He wonders briefly if it’s someone who lives there and can let him in, but when she turns to face him and their eyes meet he stops dead in his tracks.

“Iris,” he says in surprise.

She blinks at him. “Steve.” Her gaze flickers over all the food in his arms, up toward the building, and then back to his face. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Barry didn’t either,” Steve answers, adjusting his grip on the pizza boxes. “We thought we’d surprise him.”

Iris’s expression tightens. “Diana’s here too?”

“Yeah. She’s upstairs with Barry.”

Iris glances up toward the building again with an unreadable expression on her face. Steve watches her silently, wondering why she’s here. He has no idea why she and Barry broke up—he’d left to get food before the speedster could explain. But it doesn’t really matter. Barry is the nicest guy he knows, a good man and a good friend, and there’s not a chance in hell Steve is going to let Iris go upstairs unless she’s planning to fix what she broke.

When Iris turns her attention back to him, she nods at all the food he’s carrying. “That’s a lot of food,” she observes.

Steve holds her gaze purposefully. “I thought Barry might need it.”

For a second, he thinks she might snap at him. Her eyes flash, and her shoulders straighten as if he’s challenged her to a fight. But then her shoulders slump again, and she stares down at the sidewalk with her hands tangled in the long strap of her purse. “So he told you we had a fight?”

“He told us you broke up.”

Iris whips her head up to look at him. “He said _what?_ ”

It takes about half a second for Steve to realize that Barry must have seriously misinterpreted whatever argument he had with Iris. Steve remembers their trip to Alaska all of a sudden, and Diana telling him afterward that Barry had asked if they were going to break up just because they had a fight.

Steve sighs. “You didn’t actually break up with him, did you?”

“ _No,_ ” Iris says vehemently. “I don’t...I _never_ said that. I just...” She sighs and presses her fingers to her temples in a pose that’s eerily reminiscent of Diana. “Damn it, Barry,” Iris mutters. Steve tries very hard not to smile, because Diana says that sometimes too.

“So,” he says, “if you didn’t break up with him, then why are you pacing in front his building like—” he stops abruptly.

“Like a creep?” Iris finishes with a smirk. Steve nods sheepishly. Iris glances up at the building. “I came here so we could talk. But then I got here and I...I just couldn’t bring myself to go up.”

All the bags and boxes of food are starting to feel very heavy in Steve’s arms, and the way Iris is gazing longingly at the apartment entrance without making any move toward it tells him he’s probably not going to be going anywhere for awhile. He glances around, looking for a bench, but there isn’t one. So, he sets the food down on one of the concrete steps leading up to the building and then plops down next to them.

“God that was heavy,” he says, stretching out his arms with a groan.

Iris stares at him. Steve smiles at her, and then gestures at the empty spot next to him. A moment passes where she’s clearly trying to decide if she wants to join him, and then she sighs and sits down.

For a while, neither of them say anything. Steve fiddles with his watch and shuffles through a mental list of all the things Iris and Barry could fight about that would be serious enough to make Barry think Iris wanted to dump him. In the end, there’s only one thing that he thinks is probably big enough.

“He told you, didn’t he?” Steve asks.

Iris looks over at him with a blank expression on her face and Steve thinks, _I bet you’re one hell of a poker player._

“About his alter ego,” Steve clarifies.

Iris studies him, her face still blank, but when Steve holds her gaze unflinchingly she finally seems to relax. She nods. “How long have you known?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Since I met him. But that’s a really long and complicated story.”

Understanding dawns on her face. She glances around, but there is nobody else in sight. She leans toward him. “You’re in the League too, aren’t you?” she murmurs.

He nods.

Her eyebrows furrow. “Are you Batman?”

He laughs at that, hard enough that Iris blinks at him in surprise. “No,” he says. “Sorry. I’m not laughing at you. It’s just...I am _definitely_ not Batman.”

“Then who are you?”

He shrugs again. “I’m just their government liaison. You won’t see me in any pictures or videos because I don’t have any powers. Diana’s the super one in our relationship.”

“Diana?” Iris repeats. And then her mouth drops open and her eyes grow wide. “Oh my god, is she Wonder Woman?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh god,” Iris groans, burying her face in her hands. “I spent like an hour at Barry’s birthday party telling her how much I love Wonder Woman.”

Steve smiles. “You’d be surprised how often that happens to them.”

Iris shakes her head. “This is so embarrassing.”

“No it’s not,” Steve says. Iris looks up at him. He smiles. “Diana is the kindest person you’re ever going to meet, Iris. Trust me, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. She was probably honored to hear it.”

Iris looks surprised, and then pleased, and then thoughtful. She wraps her arms around her legs and pulls her knees up to her chest, and Steve thinks it makes her look much younger than she is.

“Is it hard for you to be in a relationship with her?”

“You mean because she’s a superhero?”

Iris nods.

Steve considers the question. “I don’t think being in a relationship with anyone is easy,” he says honestly. “There are things that come up in our relationship that the average couple probably doesn’t have to deal with, but—”

“Things like what?” Iris interrupts.

Steve’s first inclination is to lie. He knows Iris, and he likes her, but he doesn’t know her _that_ well. Iris is looking at him like he knows all the secrets of the universe though, and Steve knows what that means—she’s trying to decide if her relationship with Barry can work, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to keep Barry from the happy ending he deserves.

“Well for starters she wears the lasso of truth,” he says. “That means she doesn’t lie. _Ever._ Not even about little things. And she expects the same from me.”

Iris lifts her chin a little, almost defiantly. “That’s good, though. People shouldn’t lie to their partners.”

“Like Barry lied to you?” Steve says with a slight smile.

Iris deflates a little. She picks at the sleeve of her sweater absently. “I get why he did it. I know it’d be dangerous for him if people knew, and that he can’t just run around telling everybody his secret. I just didn’t think I was everybody.”

“You’re not.”

“So then why didn’t he tell me sooner?”

“He wanted to protect you.”

Iris rolls her eyes. “That is such bullshit.”

Steve stares at her in surprise.

“Sorry,” Iris says. “I didn’t mean to be harsh. I just...it’s _my_ life. If something could put me in danger, _I_ should get to decide whether or not I want to be a part of it. What’s he going to do if I decide to go skydiving or base jumping or...I don’t know, swimming with sharks?”

“Do you want to go swimming with sharks?”

“No. That’s not the point. The point is that I don’t know if I can be with someone who thinks they can just make decisions for me.”

“Yeah. I understand.”

Iris looks taken aback. “You do?”

Steve smiles. “I love Barry. He’s one of my best friends. But he should have told you sooner.”

“Thank you,” Iris says, looking vindicated.

“But,” Steve adds.

Iris sighs. “But _what?_ ”

“But Barry didn’t keep this from you because he’s the kind of guy who likes to lie. He didn’t do it because he doesn’t trust you, or because he thinks he has the right to make decisions for you.”

“Then why’d he do it?”

Steve lifts a shoulder. “For the same reason Diana has to try so hard not to make decisions for me. People like Barry and Diana don’t do things halfway. When they love someone, they do it with their whole heart. Most people don’t have the capacity to love like that. That’s what makes them such damn good heroes. But it’s also dangerous.”

Iris frowns. “Dangerous?”

“For them, I mean.”

Iris shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”

Steve turns toward her. “Love like that can move mountains, Iris. But when you lose it, when someone you love that deeply is taken from you...it’s not just devastating. It’s catastrophic. They cope. They’re too noble and selfless not to. But they never fully heal the way other people do. They spend the rest of their lives afraid to lose someone again, and it makes them overprotective.”

“Who did Diana lose?” Iris asks hesitatingly.

_Me,_ Steve nearly says. But that’s a story for another time. “Everyone,” he says instead. It’s true.

Iris looks stunned, but she does not push for more details. She stares down at her hands. “Barry lost his mom,” she murmurs. “And his dad too, in a way.”

“Yeah.”

When she looks up at him again, there are tears sitting in her eyes. “It’s not fair. People like them shouldn’t have to…” She trails off and swallows the rest of her thought, but Steve knows what she was going to say.

“You’re right, it’s not fair,” he agrees. “But it’s not an excuse, either.”

Iris picks at her sweater silently for a while, and then casts a sidelong glance at him. “What would you do if you were me?”

“Go upstairs and talk to Barry.”

Iris sighs heavily. “I thought you might say that.”

Steve turns toward her. “Look, Iris, every relationship is different. I won’t pretend to understand you and Barry’s. Hell, I don’t even understand my own sometimes. But I do know two things: One, you have to tell each other the truth. And two, you have to forgive each other. You won’t always do it perfectly, but if you love each other then you have to try.”

“I _do_ love him,” she insists. “I’m _in_ love with him. But he’s...god, Steve, he’s the _Flash._ He’s a superhero. How do you...I mean, I don’t know how to…”

She sighs and throws her hands up.

“He’s the same guy you’ve always known, Iris,” Steve tells her gently. “He just moves a little faster than you thought.”

Iris snorts in response.

Steve studies her. He has a feeling she could sit on these steps for hours and pick apart every last detail of her relationship with Barry, but he knows that won’t help. She needs to talk to Barry.

Steve gets to his feet. “I’m going upstairs.”

Iris looks up at him, her eyes wide.

He smiles at her. “Are you coming or not?”

* * *

“I’m sorry I was an idiot and said you didn’t understand.”

Diana looks down at Barry, whose head is resting on her knee. The rest of his body is sprawled out across the couch, his feet propped up on the arm rest.

Diana smiles and brushes her hand through his hair. “It’s all right. You didn’t know.”

He opens his mouth, but the sound of the front door squeaking open halts what Diana is sure is another apology. She looks up and sees Steve standing framed in the doorway, his arms full of food and his blue eyes sparkling.

Her heart flutters in her chest. Sometimes when she sees him again after being separated—even if only for an hour or so—all the breath rushes right out of her lungs. She has to try very hard not to rise from the couch and cross the room and throw herself into his arms. “Steve,” she greets.

He must hear the breathlessness in her voice, because he winks at her. “Diana.”

Barry sits up. “Hey Steve,” he says softly. “Di said you went to get food. Thanks for—”

The words die on Barry’s lips when Steve steps aside and reveals Iris standing behind him.

For a moment, the apartment is dead silent. Diana glances between Barry, who is suddenly as still as a statue, and Iris, who is fidgeting absently with the strap of her purse. The tension in the air is so thick its nearly palpable, but neither of them says a word.

Steve is standing off to the side of the door looking _very_ pleased with himself, but when Barry doesn’t say anything he rolls his eyes a little. “Barry,” he hisses.

Diana watches as the speedster manages to rip his gaze away from Iris and look at Steve.

“Look who I found,” Steve says pointedly, gesturing at Iris. And then he widens his eyes and gives Barry a look, and Barry immediately leaps to his feet.

“Hey Iris,” he says. He smoothes his hands over his wrinkled shirt, rakes a hand through his hair, shifts from one foot to the other, and then shoves his hands in his pockets and makes a quiet little _Hmmph_ noise.

Diana thinks it’s the most adorable thing she’s ever seen.

“Hi Barry,” Iris says quietly.

Steve looks back and forth between them, beaming like a proud father. Diana has the sudden urge to hug all of them as tightly as she can.

She gets to her feet. “Steve and I are going to head out,” she says to Barry.

Steve snaps to attention. “Right. Yeah. We should go. Let me just…” He moves toward the kitchen and sets his armload of food on the counter.

Diana puts a hand on Barry’s shoulder, and he turns to look at her with wide, panicked eyes. She leans forward under the guise of hugging him, and whispers in his ear, “Tell the truth. All of it.”

When she leans back, he nods. Diana smiles at him, and then she meets Steve halfway to the door and tangles her fingers with his. As she moves past Iris, the younger woman glances up at her with a familiar expression—the same admiring look Diana gets when she’s wearing her armor.

Diana pauses and leans forward to give Iris a quick, one-armed embrace. “Nice to see you, Iris.”

“Yeah,” Iris says, looking even more starstruck than before. “Nice to see you too.”

Diana casts one last glance at Barry over her shoulder, and then she lets Steve lead her from the apartment.

Neither of them say a word until the door is shut tightly behind them and they’re a few steps down the hallway. “Where did you find her?” Diana murmurs, squeezing Steve’s hand.

“She was pacing in front of the building when I got back,” he answers, slowing to a stop. He turns to face her. “I think she was trying to work up the courage to come up.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Yeah. She was surprised to hear that he thought they broke up.”

Diana nods. “I wondered. I think he felt so guilty that he convinced himself she ended things. He thought that’s what he deserved.”

Steve lifts a hand to her cheek. “Sounds familiar,” he says gently.

Diana thinks of that afternoon back in June when she told Steve that he shouldn’t want to be with her because of what had happened with the guardian. _You’re not safe with me, Steve. I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you again._ She thinks of the anger in his eyes after she said it, and the conviction in his voice. _I choose you. I’ll always choose you._

“I told him he’s not the only one who struggles with loss,” she says quietly.

She can see the pride shining in Steve’s eyes, but he does not verbalize it. “I told Iris that relationships only work if there’s truth and forgiveness,” he replies. He smiles. “Three guesses who taught me that, and the first two don’t count.”

Diana tilts forward and rests her forehead against his, basking in the presence of a man who is so selfless and generous and loving and _hers._ A sudden wave of exhaustion washes over her. She sighs tiredly.

Steve strokes his hand along the small of her back. “Home?” he asks softly.

She nods. “Home.”

* * *

On Monday morning, Diana watches the sunrise from her terrace in Paris.

It is still dark outside, but there’s a hint of light and color starting to break over the horizon. She stands with her elbows resting on the stone railing of the balcony, watching the day dawn with her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of tea.

She has always loved sunrises. On Themyscira, she was often already training by the time the sun came up. Antiope had little patience for distractions, but even she would pause when Apollo’s chariot first appeared on the edge of the earth. For a few brief seconds, aunt and niece would stop sparring and tilt their faces toward the sky, basking in the light. Sometimes Antiope would turn toward her and smile, and Diana would feel deep in her bones just how fiercely she was loved.  

Even in man’s world, the start of a new day fills her with a breathless sense of anticipation. For a long time, it was the only time of day when she felt at peace. There was something about the potential of a dawning day that soothed the ache of loneliness in her soul, something that whispered _today will be different than the rest._

Now, there is no loneliness to soothe. Steve is asleep in their bed, his body sprawled beneath the sheets. He does not rise with the sun like she does. Sometimes he senses her absence, and he shuffles out to the terrace to wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her shoulder. Sometimes he continues to sleep, and once her tea is finished she steals back into the room and climbs under the covers, burrowing into his arms to doze or to wake him with kisses.

She is sipping her tea and thinking about crawling back into bed to convince Steve to join her in the shower when a rush of air flutters the bottom of her robe and the ends of her hair.

She’s already smiling before she even looks at him. “Good morning Barry,” she murmurs, glancing to her right.

Barry stands on her terrace with his hands on his hips and his lips stretched into a grin. His eyes are alight with joy, and his dark hair is wild from the wind of his journey.

“Good morning Diana,” he says, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “I knew you’d be up.”

She sets her mug down on the stone railing and turns to face him. “You’re up late,” she says. It’s past midnight in Central City.

“Actually, I’m up early,” he replies. “We’re staying here. In Paris.”

Diana takes in the relaxed curve of his shoulders, and the joy that’s still gleaming in his eyes, and she smiles wider. “You and Iris worked things out.”

His grin is bright enough to blind her. “Yeah.”

“What do you mean, you’re staying here?” she asks. “Are you planning to move to Paris?”

“No,” he laughs. “I wanted to show her how fast I could run, so I asked her to pick a place, somewhere she’d never been and wanted to go. She picked Paris. I ran her here yesterday morning, and we’ve been here ever since. We’re staying for a few days.”

“That’s wonderful,” Diana says sincerely. She can’t seem to tear her gaze away from his face—he looks different to her somehow, more solid than usual, and she realizes it’s because he isn’t vibrating. He isn’t even fidgeting. He’s standing completely still before her, his hands on his hips and a smile on his face, and though Diana is sure that his fidgeting days are far from over, she can’t help but marvel at his newfound ability to slow down.

“We thought we’d check out the Louvre today,” he says, pulling her from her thoughts. “I was hoping if you’re not too busy you could give us a tour?”

“Yes,” she answers immediately. “I would love to. Why don’t you stop by around one o’clock? I’ll show you around, and then we can meet Steve for dinner.”

Barry nods. “Yeah. Awesome. Iris will be thrilled. Just so you know, though, she might act a little weird around you at first.”

“Weird?” Diana repeats in concern.

“Yeah, she’s got a serious girl crush on Wonder Woman,” he says with a snicker. “And she’s always wanted to visit the Louvre. I think getting a tour from you might make her brain explode.”

Diana laughs. “Let’s hope not.”

“Right,” Barry agrees, also laughing. And then his smile fades. He takes a step closer to her. “That’s not the only reason I’m here, though. I wanted to uh....”

He scratches the back of his head and shifts his weight absently from one foot to the other. _There he is,_ Diana thinks.

“I wanted to say thank you,” he continues. “For being honest with me about your issues with Steve. For not thinking I was an idiot because I cried over a girl. For encouraging me to be a better man without judging me, and always being ready to help, and just, you know, being you. I wanted to get you a gift, or do something nice, but I couldn’t think of anything and I just...” He shrugs helplessly. “You do so much for me that I’ve run out of ways to say thank you.”

Diana shakes her head. “I don’t need anything from you, Barry.”

“I know. But you deserve something. You deserve everything.”

There’s a tremor of emotion in his voice, and Diana finds that her throat is suddenly tight. Barry’s eyes are gleaming. He moves toward her at human speed instead of Barry speed, his jaw set in determination, and pulls her into his arms for a tight embrace.

“I love you,” he says quietly in her ear.

It is the best gift he could have possibly given her. She puts her arms around him and squeezes. “I love you too, Barry.”

When he pulls back, he is beaming. She puts her hands on either side of his face and smiles at him, unashamed of the tears that are sitting in her eyes. “My sweet boy,” she murmurs to him.

He blushes the way he always does when she calls him that, but his shoulders straighten and his chest puffs out too, and she knows that he enjoys hearing it almost as much as she enjoys saying it.

“I’ll see you later?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” she says, dropping her hands from his face.

He gives her one last smile and a wink, and then he’s gone.

Diana turns back to her tea, and to the sun that is now peeking over the horizon. She is lifting the mug to her lips when she hears Steve behind her. She smiles into the ceramic rim, and a moment later his arms slide around her waist. He nuzzles his nose into her neck and inhales.

“S’early,” he mumbles.

She lowers her mug. “Good morning, love.”

He mutters _morning_ and cuddles closer to her, his chest pressed against her back. It doesn’t take him long to wake up, but it does take him longer than it takes her. She sips her tea and lets him slide slowly into wakefulness. His fingers play idly with the knot on her robe, but he doesn’t undo it.

“Who you talking to?” he murmurs after a while.

“Barry stopped by,” she answers. “It seems he and Iris are on a little vacation. They’re going to stop by the Louvre for a tour this afternoon, and then we’re going to join them for dinner.”

“They worked it out?”

“Yes. Barry seems very content.”

Steve’s mouth presses against her neck beneath her ear. “They’re going to get married.”

“Probably,” she agrees. “They’re good for each other.”

“Yeah.” His hands smooth over her hips and then squeeze gently. “We’re still the best couple in the League though.”

Diana bites her lip against the urge to laugh. His voice is still scratchy with sleep, but she can hear a hint of humor in it as well. It won’t be long before he’s fully awake, and probably undoing the knot on her robe. Anticipation starts to hum in her blood.

“You think so?” she asks mildly.

“You do too,” he murmurs in her ear. “You’re just too nice to say it.”

Diana smiles and sips her tea.


End file.
